


where the light is

by gracieminabox



Series: horizons universe [16]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Childbirth, Christopher Pike Lives, Disability, Discussion of Abortion, Divorce, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Slow Burn, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-15 01:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 117,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieminabox/pseuds/gracieminabox
Summary: The first thing Phil Boyce knew how to do was love.(A companion piece to "the way our horizons meet.")





	1. Chapter 1

There is perhaps no stranger kind of quasi-liminal space than a classroom in the basement of a community college at eight o’clock on a Saturday evening. It seems a collection of qualifiers that should not, by any rights, be coexisting. Not unlike the inhabitants of said classroom.

The motley crew that showed up on the night of June 30, 2204 was rather drab, compared to some nights. A woman snapping her gum, a man drumming his fingers noisily on the table, and nobody complaining about it because it generated a modest breeze in the otherwise sweltering room, two people gossiping and sharing an eyeliner back and forth, while a third chastised them as vectors for the next plague. Two people at the front of the room were actually looking at their textbooks like pseudo-diligent students. Someone was snoring in a corner. One student was inexplicably lying supine on the floor, dead body-style.

At least everyone was in agreement that they didn’t want to be there.

_ BANG! _

Including their professor.

Letting the door slam shut behind her, the lady of the hour-and-fifty-minutes walked - more than one student present suppressed the urge to describe it as “waddling” in their minds - to the front of the room. Her face was a storm cloud, with her heavily pregnant belly peeking out the bottom of her tank top and her light brown hair frizzing out of her bun in the early summer heat. She dropped her things on her desk, heaved an immense sigh, then turned to the chalkboard, scribbling out a word.

“Stereoisomers,” she declared. “The difference between curing somebody’s sniffles and starting somebody’s meth habit.”

The motley crew obediently bent their heads and wrote it down. Nobody was brave enough to test this woman today.

She continued without so much as a pause for breath through the lesson, moving from one side of the room to the other, sketching chemical structures and writing names of long-dead white guys who figured this stuff out on the board. A keen observer might have noticed her fingers tense around her chalk every several minutes, but if anyone spotted it, they didn’t say anything.

An hour and a half passed. They were coming to the close of this night of Remedial Introductory Chemistry, but their professor, as per usual, showed no signs of stopping.

“...it is  _ vital _ that you understand the difference between stereoisomers and  _ structural _ isomers. Remember that stereoisomers involve  _ three-dimensional space,  _ whereas structural isomers - ”

“Professor?”

“ - actually have different bonds, and you’ll need to understand this - ”

“Er, Professor - ”

“ - once you get to organic chemistry classes or cis and trans isomers will make  _ no _ sense - ”

“DOCTOR BOYCE!”

Finally,  _ finally,  _ she paused, her grey eyes wide, cocking her head in the direction of the usually quiet brunette who’d spoken.

“Yes, Christina?”

Christina pointed to the floor. “I, uh, think your water just broke.”

Doctor Boyce blinked, then lowered her eyes to the linoleum.  _ Shit. _

“Well, how do you like that?” she said waspishly. “Class dismissed.”

~

Charlie had taken three exhausting days to come into the world. Sarah had come far faster, but had been a holy terror as soon as she was out of the womb.

But  _ this _ little guy... _ this _ was the calmest, smiliest baby Jennifer Boyce had ever seen, her own or otherwise.

The sun was up now - she supposed it had been up already by the time her newborn son arrived, but she had been a little busy right then - and it was lazily making its way across the sky, scattering irregular shards of light through the curtains of her hospital room. One bright ray skittered across the room and landed square on the baby, who responded by cuddling closer to his mother’s breast and sighing gently.

“All right, everybody knows,” Henry said softly, his accent a little more prominent than usual because he was exhausted. “Your parents will bring the kids over after dinner tonight.”

Jen smiled. “How much grief did your mom and dad give you about bringing him to see them?”

“Ninety percent of our conversation,” Henry answered immediately. “I don’t even know that I got out ‘it’s a boy’ before the demands started.”

Jen laughed lightly, then turned back to their son. “I can’t believe how calm he is.”

“Look how he’s snuggled against you,” Henry said. “It’s like love is his first impulse in the world. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Jen stroked the baby’s cheek, making the little boy smile even more. “He’s so peaceful.”

“He still needs a name,” Henry said gently. “Any thoughts?”

A thought flitted through Jen’s mind, almost too briefly for her to latch on, but she managed to capture it before it turned into vapor and floated off.

“How about Phil?”

Henry smiled, but furrowed his brow a little in confusion. “Phil? That wasn’t on any of our lists.”

“Philip, but we’ll call him Phil,” Jen clarified.

“Why Phil?”

Jen looked at her husband. “Greek roots, remember? It means  _ love.”  _ She turned back to the little boy. “It seems appropriate, doesn’t it? For someone who loves so instinctively.”

Henry’s face brightened, and he smiled down at their son. “What do you think,  _ mon cher?  _ Is Phil your name?”

The little boy opened his eyes, still a little glazed from his birth, but looked up at his parents’ faces nevertheless and gave a wide, gummy smile of approval.

Jen and Henry laughed. “Hello, Phil,” Jen whispered.

Thus was instituted the chief guiding principle of little Phil Boyce’s life.  _ Love. No matter what. _

~

Phil was  _ different. _

All parents are biased to thinking their children are “special” in certain ways - and perhaps they’re all right, to varying extents - but as much as Henry and Jen had thought their elder children were unique, they agreed...Phil was decidedly  _ different,  _ in ways unlike his big brother and sister.

Phil very rarely cried as a baby, even when hungry or wet or overtired - indeed, when he did cry, it was almost always because he just wanted to be held. He was keenly observant, forever looking around rooms, out the windows of the car, up at the mobile above his crib, with this soft, open curiosity, as if he was trying to access a capacity still beyond him to  _ understand. _ His first word, at ten months old, was  _ “why?” _

_ Curiosity is precious. Never deny yourself the wonder of understanding. _

Henry’s father died when Phil was three - the first loss of any of the grandparents - and the task fell to Jen to tell the kids, as Henry was in no fit state to say the words aloud just yet. Charlie stomped his foot and swore, which Jen did not have the heart to chastise. Sarah frowned, puzzled, uncomprehending. But Phil, sweet little Phil, was calm, nodding with too-wise eyes and a serious expression. “Grand-père is okay,” he declared confidently, handing Charlie a tissue.

Jen didn’t know if that meant Phil didn’t understand death, or if it meant he understood it more than she did.

_ Life and death are inseparable, both woven into the fabric of the universe. _

Six months later, when Henry and Jen sat the kids down and told them they were all going to be big siblings, reaction was mixed.

Charlie’s was a sigh and  _ “Again?” _

Sarah’s was “Can you make it a girl this time?  _ Pleeease?” _

Phil’s was a little head-cock to the side and “How?”

Which is how Henry and Jen began attempting to explain the birds and the bees to their three-year-old.

(Of course, it was  _ Phil,  _ so a simple “mommies and daddies exchange a special hug” explanation wasn’t going to cut it.)

By the end of the conversation, the sun had set, Henry had bitten his nails to the quick, and Charlie and Sarah had long since wandered off. Phil, though, was still sitting, his face a mask of open wonder at what he’d just heard.

“That’s so  _ cool.” _

After Phil had gone upstairs to wash up for bed, Henry and Jen looked at each other.

_ “Il est curieux,”  _ Henry said softly.

“He is that,” Jen affirmed.

~

Jen had gone through the  _ delightful _ experience of false labor toward the end of being pregnant with all three of her kids, so it came as no great shock when she was awakened at three in the morning, thirty-five weeks pregnant with Baby Number Four, by a breathless wraparound squeezing of her middle. Unable to fall back asleep after it subsided, she crawled out of bed, made her way to the full bath down the hall, and started running tepid water into the tub. Her pregnant body was usually soothed out of its late night prenatal fits with a bath; surely this time it would settle with the same technique.

It took an hour of adjusting, clamoring for a favorable position, for Jen to acknowledge the fact that these contractions weren’t going away. They were getting  _ stronger. _

Meanwhile, down the hall, Phil had had a little too much water with dinner, and so he woke up really needing the bathroom. He tried to roll over and go back to sleep, as if that would make it go away, but it didn’t work. He rolled out of bed, tiptoed past Charlie’s bed, and felt his way out into the dark hallway. The only light he had to go by came from a streetlight outside, and it flitted a little as fat snowflakes zoomed past it on their way to blanket the ground.

Not wanting to wake Mama and Daddy, Phil tried to be very, very quiet opening the door to the bathroom. He was surprised to see that the light was already on, and then even more surprised to peer around and see the clawfoot tub full and occupied.

Mama was on her knees in the tub. Her belly and breasts were covered by the water, but her hands were out, fisting the lip of the tub so firmly that her knuckles were white and her fingertips a dark pink. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was breathing  _ hard,  _ making a noise low in her throat.

For a moment, Phil didn’t move. Instinctively, he knew he shouldn’t bother Mama when she had that expression on her face, but he wasn’t sure what he  _ should _ do. So he stood, for a long, long minute, watching Mama work harder than he knew it was possible for a human to work.

Phil almost blinked, almost forced himself to avert his eyes - but he couldn’t make himself do it. Because the sight in front of him was just so  _ alive. _

As Mama’s breathing evened out, her grip on the tub slackened, and her brow lost its deep furrow, Phil very, very tentatively approached the bathtub. “Mama?” he chanced.

Mama’s eyes flew open and she gasped a little bit.  _ “Phil,” _ she breathed.

Phil took another step. “Are you okay, Mama?”

“I’m fine, baby,” she said, still a little out of breath. “Listen to me. I need you to go wake up your dad, okay? Tell him - ” She paused, her face blanching, and gripped the tub again. “Oh  _ god,  _ not another one already,” she said in a high, tight voice.

“Is the baby coming?” Phil couldn’t help but ask.

Mama couldn’t speak. She just nodded furiously.

Phil was only four, too young to really understand the gravity of what was happening, but he felt like he’d just been given a sacred responsibility that he should treat with the utmost care. He ran out of the bathroom, into his parents’ bedroom, and shook his father’s shoulder.

“Daddy, wake up.”

Daddy winced a little and mumbled something Phil couldn’t understand in French.

“Daddy, Mama needs you. Wake up!”

Daddy cracked his eyes open a tiny bit.  _ “Mon dieu,  _ Philip, it’s the middle of the night.” He shuffled a little, then seemed to fall back asleep.

“DADDY!” Phil finally shouted - profoundly uncharacteristic for him, but suiting the situation. “Mama says the baby’s coming!”

That, finally, seemed to jolt Daddy awake. He tossed the covers off his legs and jumped to his feet.  _ “Où est-elle?” _

“In the bathtub,” Phil answered, following Daddy as he ran down the hall.

Things after that seemed to move very quickly.

Daddy shouted for Charlie to come and call for an ambulance. Mama looked up to Daddy and said “It’s too  _ soon _ and I can’t make it  _ stop!”  _ Charlie, on the call with emergency services, quietly ushered a terrified-looking Sarah out of the doorway of the bathroom.

Phil knew this was a matter for grown-ups. But he also couldn’t stop himself from wanting to help.

Climbing onto the little step-stool by the bathroom sink that he stood on to brush his teeth, he took his bright green washcloth off the hook, ran it under cold water, and walked it over to Mama. While she was in a moment between wincing-moaning-panting, Phil reached up and patted her face with it, cooling her overheated brow and wiping droplets of sweat away. Mama looked up at him with a lot of feelings in her eyes that Phil knew he was too little to understand. Phil tried to look right back, unflinching and unafraid. Mama looked like she needed calm in the storm. Maybe that’s what Phil could be.

“They’re coming,” Charlie’s voice came from the hall, “but their shuttles are down for maintenance, so they’re having to come by ambulance.”

“Henry,” Mama said in a low voice,  _ “ça se passe maintenant.” _

Daddy swore. Mama yelled, low and loud. Phil stood and watched, heedless of the washcloth dripping onto his stocking feet, because who could pay attention to something like  _ that _ when they could be paying attention to something like  _ this,  _ this concentrated distillation of raw power?

Three solid pushes later, Phil’s tiny, red, wrinkly baby sister was born into Daddy’s hands, screaming her head off, and Mama leaned her forehead against the lip of the tub.

“Is she okay?” Mama asked.

“Well, her lungs are working fine, that’s for sure,” Daddy answered, with a wet laugh.

Mama lifted her upper body and took the baby in her arms. “Oh, god, she’s so small.”

“She’s okay,  _ cherie,”  _ Daddy reassured her, wrapping them both in a towel. “She’s okay.”

Mama breathed deeply, clutched the tiny red wailing bundle to her breast, and slumped a little, leaning her head against Daddy’s chest.

Phil blinked, awed, subconsciously adding another credo to his personal canon.

_ Women are the strongest, fiercest, most powerful creatures in existence. _

~

Kindergarten taught Phil how to write the alphabet, how to add and subtract, how to do basic tasks on the computer, and all about the connective tissue between falling in love and agonizing pain.

The teacher had them sit alphabetically, which put Phil next to Adelaide Bennigan. She was shy and smart and very kind to animals, and Phil thought he might be in love with her. They didn’t talk very much, but sometimes she turned and smiled at him and her blonde curls would bounce a little in a cloud around her head, and Phil felt like he was made of soap bubbles, just a little bit. Before they let out for Christmas break, Adelaide passed him a scrawled note that read  _ “ill miss you over the brake!” _ Phil brought it home, showed his parents, and told them that he wanted to be her boyfriend. Mama and Daddy smiled gently at him and reminded him that Adelaide should make that kind of a decision for herself.

_ You can’t make decisions for someone else. _

Near the end of the school year, Phil spotted Adelaide from across the playground at recess. She was on the swings, her eyes downcast as a gaggle of second-graders pointed and laughed at her. Phil couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t matter; he went to intervene anyway.

“Get off! Get off!” one of the big kids was taunting her as Phil approached. “You’re gonna break the swing!”

“How can you even  _ get _ that fat as a little kid?” another said venomously.

The third member of the brain trust made cow, pig, and for some reason, braying donkey noises in the background.

“Leave me alone,” Adelaide managed to say softly, two shiny tears running down her cheeks.

“You know, your mom and dad will have to pay for that swing when you break it.”

“Ooh! Maybe she’s not fat! Maybe she’s pregnant!”

Phil glared up at the backs of the big kids.  _ Always fight with your brain and your words instead of your fists.  _ “She can’t be  _ pregnant,”  _ he called over their taunts. “She hasn’t gone through puberty yet!”

Three heads swiveled in unison toward Phil, confusion on their faces.

“What’s  _ puterby?”  _ the one who’d been making farm animal noises asked.

Phil grit his teeth. “It’s when kids’ bodies get ready to be grown-up bodies,” he explained. “You can’t have a baby before then. Shouldn’t you know that by second grade?”

“What a  _ nerd,”  _ one of the big kids said.

_ “Nerd” is a peculiar compliment paid to one who is enthusiastic about the complexity of life. Embrace it. _

Phil opened his mouth to retort something to that effect, but was interrupted by another kid. “So if she can’t be pregnant, it means she’s just  _ fat!”  _ he crowed.

_ “Stop it!”  _ Adelaide cried, but to no avail, as her tormentors collapsed in giggles to the ground. She hopped off the swing and ran to a more secluded area of the playground. Phil followed her, sitting next to her on the ground, where she was shedding a piece of grass into tiny bits.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Adelaide kept her head down and shrugged. She sniffled loudly. “Thank you for trying to stop them.”

“You’re welcome,” Phil said. “They were being really mean to you. Do you want me to tell Miss Agnew?”

Adelaide shook her head. “She already knows. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does,” Phil protested. “They shouldn’t be mean to you like that!”

Adelaide nodded, running a hand under one of her eyes. “I can make it through one more week,” she said with unnecessary bravery, as if parroting a mantra told to her by a grown-up who was trying to help her survive.

“What about next year?” Phil said.

“We’re moving to Virginia this summer for my mom’s work,” Adelaide said on a relieved sigh. “They won’t be there.”

Phil felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “You’re...you’re going away?”

Adelaide smiled for the first time Phil had seen all day. “Yeah. I can’t wait. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Phil looked to the ground, trying to be brave.  _ Let others do what they must for themselves, even if it hurts you.  _ “I’ll miss you, Adelaide,” he said quietly.

Adelaide nodded. “I’ll miss you too.”

One week later, Adelaide gave him a hug outside their classroom and walked off, hand in hand with her mother. Phil never saw her again. That night, he slept between Daddy and Mama, crying out his heartbreak quietly as Mama stroked his hair.

~

In first grade, the teacher mixed the kids up, seating them as he pleased and not alphabetically, which put Phil next to a boy named Teddy Kalish.

Teddy let Phil borrow his blue crayon on the first day of school, and they became fast friends after that. Teddy, Phil observed, was  _ everybody’s _ friend; he was outgoing and friendly, and all of their classmates seemed to like him a lot. He had a big gap-toothed smile, liked to do math problems, and was really,  _ really _ good when they started learning cursive.

Phil liked Teddy. Phil liked Teddy very much the same way he’d liked Adelaide.

It wasn’t  _ identical,  _ no. Teddy had a certain  _ “cool”  _ factor that Adelaide hadn’t had, and Adelaide had had that blushy smile and pretty curls that Teddy didn’t. But they were both really smart, and they were both really nice, and they both gave Phil the same soap-bubbly feeling when they smiled at him.

It made him grin all the way until bedtime.

“Hey, sweet prince,” Mama said softly, coming into the room to tuck Phil in. “I’m sorry I’m home so late.”

“It’s okay, Mama,” Phil said, turning onto his side to face her. The dog, Phoenix, raised her massive head from Phil’s bed and snorted in distaste at having her nap disturbed, then resettled after an ear rub.

“How was your day at school?”

“Good,” Phil said. “Mr. Martin says we’re gonna start learning how to times things next week.”

Mama smiled. “You mean multiplication?”

“Yeah,” Phil said. “Multil - mulplic - ”

Mama laughed lightly, tucking the covers around Phil’s chin. “It’s okay, honey. Did you see your friend Teddy today?”

Phil nodded happily. “He was wearing a blue shirt.”

“That sounds nice.”

“I like him, Mama.”

“I know you do, baby,” she said. “I’m glad you found a new friend at school. I know you were really upset when Adelaide moved away.”

“I was,” Phil said. “And I like Teddy like I liked Adelaide.”

Mama looked at Phil and blinked, cocking her head to the side just the tiniest bit. “Oh?” she said.

“Mmhmm.”

Mama smiled, swallowed, and then bent down a little lower, closer to Phil’s face. “Phil, remember how you told me and Daddy that you wished you were Adelaide’s boyfriend?”

Phil nodded. “And you said I couldn’t  _ make  _ her be my girlfriend because that wasn’t nice, and I should let her decide for herself.”

“Right,” Mama said slowly. “So...does that mean you wish you were Teddy’s boyfriend?”

Phil grinned. “Uh huh.”

Mama nodded. “Like...the same kind of relationship that Daddy and I have?” she felt the need to clarify.

“Uh huh.”

Mama ran her fingers through Phil’s hair. “Do you not like girls anymore, Phil?”

Phil giggled.  _ “No,”  _ he said, rolling his eyes a little. “Mama, I like boys  _ too!” _

_ “Ohhh,” _ Mama breathed, nodding. “I understand now.”

Phil settled into the pillows contentedly as Mama gave one more ruffle to his hair.

“Well, that’s a very grown-up topic,” she said softly. “I feel like that’s something we should talk about more when you’re a little older.”

Phil didn’t understand why Mama thought that him getting older would change anything, but he was also getting sleepy, so…

“Okay, Mama.”

She shut off his bedroom light, but stayed there, sitting next to Phil for just a little bit longer, looking at him with a funny expression on her face, before she leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“You know we will always,  _ always _ love you, Philip John,” she pressed into his skin, “no matter what.”

_ Love. No matter what. _

“Love you too, Mama,” Phil said sleepily.

As he drifted off, he heard Mama’s voice next door, talking to Daddy.

_ “Il est curieux,”  _ she said softly.


	2. Chapter 2

Jen was the youngest of four kids in her family, and from a young age, she and her siblings were pigeonholed into certain unspoken but understood roles. David was the Namesake, who carried with him the name and baggage of the three Davids who came before him; Charlotte was the Sick One, forever ill and in need of special accommodations; Mary was Should’ve-Been-A-Boy, for reasons that were self-explanatory; and then there was Jen, the Accident.

As a mother, Jen tried -  _ really,  _ she did - to avoid the temptation to do likewise with her own children. In some respects, she succeeded; in others, defining the Boyce children by their characteristics was sort of unavoidable.

Charlie was mini-Henry. He had the stoic seriousness of the prototypical eldest child, with Henry’s quietness, intense protectiveness, and tender-heartedness. He and his father shared the same very tall lankiness, the same slightly accented speech, even similar handwriting. He was the most private Boyce child by a wide margin, and the hardest one to crack.

Sarah was the rebel. She came out of the womb profoundly stubborn, and for the most part, stayed that way. She was the child who put her pants on backwards just to make her parents’ lives slightly more difficult. Sarah openly and loudly questioned authority. Sarah took risks and operated on impulse. Sarah walked through dense brush, machete in hand, and made her own path in the world, to hell with anyone who criticized her for it. She was the one that kept Henry and Jen up late at night with worry, but also the one they knew was a phoenix waiting to rise from the ash stronger and wiser than she had been before.

If Charlie was mini-Henry, then Lily was mini-Jen. She was the spitfire, the flirt, the aggressively independent one with a razor-sharp wit whose mind worked faster than her mouth and wasn’t shy about the fact that that  _ frustrated _ her. No one was surprised when, as a baby, her hair started coming in an aggressive, fire-engine red, even though no one on either side of the family had red hair. It just seemed appropriate for Lily.

And Phil...well. Phil was  _ different. _

Phil, who understood death when he was three. Phil, who unflinchingly watched his sister being born when he was four. Phil, who came out at six. Phil, who became a vegetarian at seven because eating meat was “against his principles”  - Henry commented offhandedly that he didn’t even know seven-year-olds could  _ have _ “principles” - and then actually stuck to it.

Phil, a brilliant, sweet boy who carried a seemingly infinite reserve of wisdom far beyond his years, and who let that wisdom inform his every decision, his every interaction, his every life-guiding principle, in a way precious few others ever could, regardless of age or experience.

Yes, he was  _ different. _

~

It was a Saturday afternoon in February. Dad had gone to California for a teacher’s conference, and Mom had been called into work to fix a “phantom ion flux in the chemical matrices of the QC team’s operations schema” - whatever that meant. The absence of their parents nominally left Charlie in charge of his brother and sisters, but Charlie found it  _ infinitely _ more enjoyable to canoodle with his fiancee, and Phil couldn’t exactly blame him. Lily had gone to a friend’s house for a sleepover, leaving Phil and Sarah to, more or less, fend for themselves.

“I wanna go ice skating,” Sarah said over a mug of hot chocolate.

“Do you even  _ know _ how to skate?” Phil asked dubiously. “I don’t.”

“No,” Sarah admitted breezily, “but how hard can it be, really?”

“...uh, well, it’s pretty much strapping knives to your feet and then balancing on them on a sheet of ice, so...pretty hard?”

Sarah rolled her eyes with a smile, rising from the table. “I took ballet for a couple years. I can handle skating.”

Phil looked after her as she walked off, puzzled, before shrugging and looking out the window, sipping his tea. The snow had stopped falling by that point, but the sky remained heavy and grey over the pristine white ground. Phil  _ loved _ this kind of weather, the shadowy, shaded, cross-hatched patchwork of chiaroscuro. He found blue skies endlessly boring - no nuance, no complexity. It seemed to come with expectations and demands. But grey skies, especially ones with the tiniest little rays of sun shining through, as if insistently spotlighting a path, something deserving of attention... _ that  _ told an interesting story.

Sarah’s footsteps entered the room again. Phil turned; she tossed his winter coat over his shoulders, a mischievous smile on her face, and tugged him out the back door. “Let’s go!” she hissed conspiratorially. Phil didn’t see until they were outside that she was carrying Charlie’s old ice skates in her left hand.

_ “Sarah,”  _ Phil said in a tone that was part begging and part exasperated, “you  _ don’t know what you’re doing.” _

“I know  _ exactly _ what I’m doing,” Sarah replied, walking with Phil back to the frozen-over pond in the far back of the Boyce property. “I’m going skating with my little brother.”

Phil spluttered a little, trying to keep up with her as she traipsed through the snow that stopped halfway up her calves. “But what if it’s not safe? We don’t know how thick that ice is - ”

“Phil, it’s like fifteen below out here; the pond won’t thaw until March,” she said, bending and shuffling off her boots so she could lace up the skates. “It’ll be  _ fun.” _

Phil looked out over the pond; it certainly  _ looked _ solid, but he wasn’t an expert, and the cloud cover was making it hard to tell how clear the ice was. Sarah was grinning, determined; she had that  _ how far can I push myself before I break?  _ glint in her eye that both intrigued and terrified Phil. “C’mon,” she said, grabbing him by the arm and waddling to the pond’s edge, “I need to hang on to you.”

_ “I’m  _ not getting on that ice!” Phil protested. “I don’t even have skates on, and I have even less idea how to use them than  _ you  _ do!”

“Okay,  _ fine, _ just hang onto my arms and walk with me around the edge,” Sarah relented, taking a tentative step onto the ice with one skate.

Phil held his breath. The ice held its shape.

Sarah stepped with her other foot. The ice continued to hold. She let out a triumphant  _ whoop! _ of joy that echoed off the trees around them.

With glacial slowness, Phil started to walk the diameter of the pond, the snow and leaves and branches crunching under his steps, while Sarah maintained an unsteady glide next to him, gripping his arm the whole time.

“Mom and Dad would kill you if they knew you were out here,” Phil intoned.

“Mom and Dad aren’t here,” Sarah replied.

“Charlie, then.”

“Please. Charlie has one concern right now, and it’s a blonde with her hand down his pants.”

Phil made a noise of disgust. Sarah laughed uproariously.

As they approached the zenith of the pond, Sarah and Phil continued to talk mindlessly, and Phil noticed the ground under his feet becoming slicker, harder to grip, even with his winter boots on. His intuition tingled a little, prickling the back of his neck, but he didn’t listen to it.

In retrospect, he barely remembered feeling that prickle.

_ Never, ever ignore your intuition. It is smarter than you are. _

A slip. A skid downward, onto the edge of the ice. Sarah gasping his name.

_ Crack. _

_ Cold. _ Icy slush completely enveloping him, his lungs burning in counterpoint as they screamed for oxygen.

Sarah’s mittened hand plunging into the ice, grappling for his, but losing grip.

Surfacing his face for the briefest moment, to grab a lungful of air. Phoenix’s barking. Sarah’s shrieking.  _ “Charlie! Charlie!” _

Cold. Dark. Ice.  _ Life. Death. Fabric of the universe. _

_ So tired. Sleep. Want to sleep. _

Quiet.

And then…

And then Charlie’s hands under his armpits, yanking him out of the pond with bruising force.

“Tara,” Charlie called over Sarah’s background hysteria, “go back to the house and get a fire going. The starter’s on the mantle. Get the first aid kit, too. Sarah, get it together, he’s gonna be fine. Go get the spare blankets from the closet. All of them. Bring them to the living room. No, just  _ leave _ the skates.  _ Go.” _

Phil lolled his head to the side, sputtering some water out against the snowpack around him. Charlie picked him up bridal-style and started fast-walking through the snow back to the house. Phil curled in toward Charlie’s chest, seeking warmth, seeking the steady drumbeat of his heart.

“C’mon, little brother,” Charlie murmured. “C’mon...”

The next thing Phil remembered was waking up on the sofa in the living room, dazed and not quite able to focus, hands and feet and face tingling with the perfusion of warm blood into frigid places. Phoenix was draped over his lower legs, pinning him to the couch, sharing her body heat with him. Sarah was sitting on the floor next to him, holding his hand; she had hot packs over her feet and was resting her forehead on the sofa cushion, facing the fireplace. Weakly, he squeezed her hand.

She looked up. “Oh god,  _ Phil!” _ she breathed. She pushed herself up onto her knees and planted a huge kiss on Phil’s aching forehead. “Oh, Phil, I’m so sorry, baby brother, I’m  _ so, so sorry,  _ I never meant for you to get hurt,  _ never,  _ if anybody got hurt I wanted it to be me, not you,  _ never you,  _ oh god, Phil, please forgive me, please, I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll never hurt you again.”

It was an apology in that rapid-fire cadence that seems exclusive to thirteen-year-old girls, which made Phil’s head spin a little bit more - but it was sincere, and honestly, nothing else mattered.

_ When someone offers you honest contrition for a wrong, be gracious and accept it. _

“It’s okay, Sarah,” he mumbled, giving her a little smile. “I’m okay.”

~

Phil woke at one in the morning to a weird, muffled hiccuping sound. It took him a few minutes of consciousness to recognize it as the sound of someone crying in an adjacent room. Concerned, he rolled out of bed, put on his slippers to guard against the freezing floor, and tiptoed out of his room into the darkened hallway.

The girls’ room was dark, as was the guest room, where Charlie was staying with his wife and baby for the Christmas holiday. But the light in his parents’ room was on, and Charlie stood in the hall outside of it, leaned against the doorframe, surreptitiously looking into the room. His arms were folded and his face was a stony mask. He made eye contact with Phil as he approached; Phil had never seen that look on his brother’s face. Carefully, Phil craned his neck and peered around Charlie into the room.

It was Sarah. Her purple-streaked hair fell in a limp, sad curtain around her face, but Phil didn’t need to see her face to know that  _ she _ was the one crying. She had a huge bruise on the arm facing the door, and when she curled her hair behind her ear, Phil saw what looked like the beginnings of a black eye. Her eyes were downcast, her arms hugging her middle.

Mom was sitting next to her, one arm wrapped protectively around her daughter, her face an exact parody of Charlie’s stony expression. She was silent.  _ That _ was terrifying. Mom was not a yeller, but she  _ definitely _ did not hold back on her emotions; in fact, you could usually gauge how pissed she was by how many syllables she was using. For her to be angry past the point of speech was unprecedented. Dad was kneeling in front of Sarah, his hands on her feet, grounding her to the floor. He  _ was _ talking, slipping entirely into French, his own side effect of a wellspring of emotion.

_ “Non, ma belle. Non. Ce n’est pas de ta faute. Tu n’as rien fait de mal.” _

Phil was still sleepy, so it took him a second to translate it:  _ It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. _

The extrapolation wasn’t difficult.

Sarah slumped a little, leaning into Mom’s arms, and began to cry again. Dad climbed onto Sarah’s other side and embraced them both, rocking their daughter a little, whispering too lowly for Phil to hear.

“C’mon,” Charlie whispered to Phil, putting his hands on Phil’s shoulders and guiding him back to the darkened bedroom they used to share.

Phil sat on his bed, his mind a weird haze of shock-anger-confusion. Charlie sat on the adjacent bed, picking at his nails.

“Is she gonna be okay?” Phil managed to ask, finding his voice.

Charlie let a pause hang in the air for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally said lowly, not looking up. “Yeah, she’s gonna be fine, Phil.”

Phil wasn’t sure how Charlie knew that, or how to respond to it, or of much of anything, it felt like. He and Charlie sat there in the quiet, still darkness, absorbing, processing, not wanting to be alone. Charlie only looked up when he heard baby Audrey stirring in the guest room, the floor creaking slightly as Tara got up to tend to her. Phil watched his brother turn his head in the direction of his daughter’s cries and take a long, slow breath.

Sometime thereafter - he had no idea when - Phil fell back into an uneasy sleep. Charlie woke him up what felt like mere minutes into that sleep, shaking his shoulder.

“Phil.  _ Phil.  _ Get up. Get dressed. Long johns too.”

Phil blinked. “Charlie, what - ”

“Meet me in the backyard. C’mon.”

Charlie - dressed in full New England winter gear - turned on his heel and left Phil to get dressed. Phil shook his head a little, trying to rearrange his brain cells, then did as he was told. Walking out of his room, he saw Lily sound asleep in her bed, starfished out as per usual, her hair a fiery cloud around her head; he saw Tara sitting up in bed, sleepily nursing Audrey; he saw Sarah, asleep in their parents’ bed, Phoenix protectively sprawled at her feet, sandwiched between Mom and Dad like a little girl who’d had a nightmare.

(Which, he supposed, she had. Except it had been real.)

It was still dark outside. Charlie stood in the backyard, hands in his pockets, breathing out frosty puffs of air. He turned when he heard Phil’s footsteps approaching.

“Take off your mittens,” Charlie directed, grabbing hold of one of Phil’s hands.

Baffled, Phil complied.

“Okay, make a fist.”

Phil did.

“All right, relax your hand. Now, do what I do. Ready?” Charlie paused, holding his hand out for Phil to see. “Extend your fingers. Curl them in, so they touch the top of your hand. And then curl down from the second knuckle. And now, fold your thumb around. Tighter, over your fingers.  _ Good.  _ That’s great.”

Phil stood there with his fist out in front of him, in the dark, in five inches of snow, sleep-deprived and confused. He wanted to ask what the hell was going on, but Charlie continued.

“Okay, now, you never want to throw a punch with your fist vertical like this,” Charlie continued.

“Why am I throwing a punch at all?” Phil managed to ask.

Charlie ignored the question, gently turning Phil’s wrist ninety degrees. “Horizontal, with your thumb to the ground. You’re gonna power from your shoulder, not from your elbow. More force that way.” He nodded. “All right, show me.”

Phil threw a perfunctory punch into the air.

Charlie watched, assessing, and then nodded decisively. “Okay. That was good. But when you punch out, be sure you squeeze your fist, really tight, so your fingers stay nice and compact. Try to put most of the impact onto your first two fingers.”

Phil adjusted his stance, then tried again.

“Much better,” Charlie said, nodding. “Much better. Now, the same principle applies when you’re trying to uppercut…”

Phil largely stayed silent, punching at the air with his big brother as the sun started to rise. He started to lose feeling in his nose from the cold, but he barely even noticed it. He wanted to ask questions. Why was Charlie teaching him this now, in the snow, at dawn? Where did Charlie, of all people, learn how to fight? What exactly did Charlie want Phil to do with this impromptu lesson in fisticuffs? But he stayed silent, because Charlie had the bearing of a man who could not be deterred from the task at hand.

“Okay,” Charlie finally said, after an hour of gentle stance-correction and tips for maximum impact. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Phil stumbled a little in the snow, trying to keep up with Charlie and his damned long legs. “Where are we going?”

Charlie opened the car door for Phil and nodded to him to get inside. “We’re going to go dispense with a problem.”

It was a forty-five minute drive from their home in Waterville to the outskirts of Lewiston. Charlie spent the entire drive clenching and unclenching a fist around the steering wheel. When they finally stopped, it was in front of a mid-sized split-level house in the middle of nowhere. Phil did not trust the situation, but he did trust his brother, so when Charlie said “c’mon” and got out of the car, Phil followed suit.

“If this gets ugly, I may need your help,” Charlie said lowly. “If this gets  _ really _ ugly, though, run. Get back to the car, lock the doors, and call Mom and Dad. Got it?”

Phil nodded. “Got it.”

Charlie knocked on the front door. Waited. No response.

Charlie knocked again. Waited. Nothing.

Finally, Charlie made a fist and  _ pounded _ against the front door, with enough force that Phil was surprised the wood didn’t split. Then finally, finally, someone emerged from the house - a blond-haired, blue-eyed teenager, older than Phil but not by much, with his hair parted neatly on the side and wearing a pressed dress shirt and slacks. The perfect picture of a trust-fund prep school baby, right down to the elbow patches and the bruised knuckles on his right hand.

“Can I help you?”

Charlie had that stony look on his face again. Raising himself up to his full six-foot-four height, he reached across the threshold, picked the blond man up by his collar, and yanked him outside, where he slammed him,  _ hard,  _ into the facade of the house. The man choked a little in surprise and kicked his feet from where Charlie still held him off the ground.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure to meet yet, Eldon,” Charlie said, almost pleasantly. “I’m Charles Boyce. I hear you’ve been beating up my little sister.”

Eldon had nothing to say to that, except a few hard coughs. Phil’s heart was pounding.

“Did you know, Eldon,” Charlie said in a bizarrely conversational tone of voice, “that even today, in almost 2219, technologies to help save women from the abuse of men are a multi-billion credit a year industry? It’s true. Special lipsticks, nail polishes, underwear with anti-rape technology...it’s all a matter of supply and demand, really. It’s almost 2219 and little girls are still taught to go to the bathroom in packs, to protect each other. It’s almost 2219 and women are still told not to wear this skirt or that tank top because  _ certain men _ see that as an invitation. It’s almost 2219 and  _ too goddamn many women  _ are still afraid of saying no to men.” Charlie’s voice dipped to a low, venomous register. “And you know what, Eldon? It’s men like you who make all those fears  _ valid. _ And I am  _ not - ” _ Charlie slammed Eldon into the front of the house again, “ - going to let my daughter grow up in a world where men like you get away with it.”

Eldon had his eyes squeezed shut. He’d stopped kicking at the air, but he was breathing hard.

“You’d better be glad you’re human,” Charlie continued. “Do you know what they do to people like you on Qo’noS? Do you know what they do to people like you on Vulcan? You’d better get down on your knees and thank whatever deity is keeping you breathing that the only thing you’ve gotta deal with is two  _ very pissed off _ brothers.”

Eldon looked out of the corner of his eye and spotted Phil. Phil clenched a fist, exactly as Charlie had taught him to, and arranged his face to try to mimic Charlie’s. He had no idea if he looked intimidating, or just like a fourteen-year-old boy  _ trying _ to look intimidating, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Charlie abruptly tossed Eldon back down to the ground, where he landed on his side with a resounding  _ thud.  _ “If you  _ ever  _ come near Sarah again, you’re gonna have to deal with our mother. See, she’s a chemist. She  _ makes _ a lot of those products I mentioned before, because she knows men like you exist. And she is  _ way _ scarier than I am.” Charlie nodded to Phil. “C’mon.”

They got back in the car in silence. They drove out of Lewiston in silence. They got back on the highway in silence. Finally, Charlie spoke.

“We hold a lot of power in the world, Phil,” he said quietly. “They’ll tell you that it’s hell of a lot more equal than it used to be two, three, four hundred years ago, and they’re not wrong, but we still live at the top of the totem pole in a lot of ways that aren’t fair, and that make things worse for people that don’t have those advantages.” He swallowed. “We have a responsibility to actively, mindfully not abuse that position, and to stop other men who do.” Charlie paused, scoffing. “Not men,” he said as a breathy aside.  _ “Cowards.” _

Phil nodded.

“We  _ have _ to defend people who got a more raw deal in life than we did,” Charlie continued. “Extraterrestrials, people of color, disabled folks, people who don’t have the kind of money Mom and Dad have. And women. No Boyce ever stands idly by while a woman gets hurt. Any woman. By any person. At any time.” He glanced quickly at Phil, making eye contact. “You hear me, Phil?  _ Ever.” _

_ Respect, honor, elevate, and defend anyone who lacks the privileges you hold. _

“I hear you, Charlie.”


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Phil  _ thought _ he’d fallen in love was when he sat next to a pretty girl in kindergarten. The first time he  _ actually _ fell in love was when he sat next to a pretty man in Biochemical Foundations of Pharmacology I in his sophomore year of college.

The bored-looking TA stood in front of the class visibly suppressing a yawn. “If you’re in an odd-numbered row, turn to your left. If you’re in an even-numbered row, turn to your right. Meet your new lab partner.”

Phil turned to his left per instructions, and... _ oh. _

Soap bubbles.  _ Lots _ of them.

He was tall - maybe not  _ quite _ as tall as Charlie, but decidedly taller than Phil - with thick dark hair that flopped down gently over his forehead, chocolate brown eyes, and a perfectly bright, straight smile that Phil  _ instantly _ hoped was the only straight thing about him.

“Hi,” Phil’s new lab partner-turned-instacrush said softly, flashing that smile. “I’m Eli.”

Phil smiled back, extending a hand. Eli took it, and Phil shivered at the contact. “Hi, Eli. I’m Phil.”

That shivery feeling lasted all the way until he came home for dinner with the family. (The benefits of going to college in one’s hometown were many and varied, chief among them the freedom to still live at home.) Dad was cooking, Mom was washing spinach for a salad, and Phil was chopping up a bell pepper with a smile on his face that was wholly inappropriate to the task at hand.

“What is this look on your face?” Mom asked, scrutinizing Phil out of the corner of her eye. 

Phil’s smile just grew. “Nothing,” he said, reaching for another pepper. “Just had a good day today, that’s all.” He looked up and out the window above the kitchen sink, smile not wavering. “Hey, look, Lily’s grown a pair of hands on her ass.”

Mom turned to look out the window, then huffed. “Oh  _ fuck me,”  _ she muttered, storming out the back door.  _ “Lillian Eve, you’d better not be conceiving my next grandchild against that tree!” _

Phil laughed lightly and kept chopping, only mildly startled when Sarah appeared next to him.

“Mom was right, you know,” she said, popping a snap pea into her mouth. “You’re  _ way _ too smiley for the first day of term. Spill.”

Phil looked down at his chopping hands, feeling a light flush spread over his cheeks. “Why can’t anyone believe I just had a really good day today?”

“Because you’re a nerd who loves school and even  _ you _ don’t come home on the first day of term like this,” Sarah answered. “Start talking, Philip.”

Phil rolled his eyes, smiled up at her, and double-checked behind her to be sure Dad wasn’t listening. “Fine,” he relented quietly. “I met someone.”

“Girl or guy?”

“Guy.”

“Oh,  _ Phil!”  _ Sarah squealed, dropping her voice when Phil shushed her, lest Dad overhear.

“I don’t wanna tell Mom and Dad yet,” Phil explained. “I’m trying not to get too excited about it.”

“Oh yeah, smiling like an idiot all through dinner’s  _ really _ gonna keep Mom and Dad from noticing,” Sarah snarked. “And why not get excited about it? Is he not into dudes?”

“I don’t know,” Phil said. “I just met him. All we’ve done together is the stupid ‘first-day-of-school’ lab safety assignment; it’s a little early to bust out the sexual orientation questions just yet.”

“I have so much to learn about the queer experience,” Sarah said wistfully. “I’m happy for you, sweetie, I am. Just don’t get your heart broken, okay?”

“I won’t,” Phil placated.

“You’ve never really  _ had _ your heart broken before,” Sarah continued. “And you always get  _ way _ more invested in the guys you like than the girls.”

“Hey, that’s not true!” Phil protested, frowning at her. Then he paused, reflecting. “Wait a minute.”

_ Remember, the keepers of your secrets know your secrets better than you do. _

Sarah just raised her eyebrows at him, popping another snap pea into her mouth. “You know I’m right.”

Phil rolled his eyes and returned to his pepper. “It’s a minor crush on someone I have virtually no relationship with - ”

“Yet.”

“It’s not like we’re gonna elope to Risa - ”

“Yet.”

Phil glared mildly at her out of the corner of his eye. “I have a big-ass knife in my hand, you know.”

“If I had a credit, Philip.”

As usual, Sarah was correct - well, with her first  _ yet,  _ at least. Phil and Eli developing a close relationship was rather unavoidable, because Biochemical Principles of Pharmacology I was a  _ nightmare _ of a class. Phil was the son of a mathematician and a chemical engineer, but now, when he needed them most, genetics were failing him on a  _ spectacular _ scale. Hours upon hours of pouring over the textbook, begging his mother to help him, and taking longhand notes until his hand cramped up yielded only mediocre improvements in his understanding of what the hell this class was about.

What did help was Eli. Sweet, smart,  _ painfully  _ pretty Eli. He had to invest a lot of effort into the class, too - nobody  _ wasn’t _ struggling - but he seemed to grasp the concepts far more readily than Phil did. He had a patience and a style in clarifying things that Phil really responded to, and having him as a lab partner to demystify the hows and whys made things so much simpler.

From their asides, Phil learned that Eli was from Florida, that he went to college in Maine primarily to distance himself from a family of origin who sounded like assholes, and that he wanted to be a pharmacist. Phil kept an ear out for mentions of a boy- and/or girlfriend - past or present - ready to interpret it as a green or red or yellow light for the possibility of more than friendship with Eli; but none materialized, and Phil wasn’t willing to push it.

Then, of course, finals came, Eli got the highest grade in the class, Phil managed to eke out a B, they embraced in victory, and out of nowhere, Eli kissed Phil,  _ hard. _

Poor Eli was  _ fuchsia _ when they parted. “Oh my  _ god,  _ did I really just do that?” he mumbled, not making eye contact. “I’m sorry, I just…” His voice trailed off into nothingness, and Phil could almost  _ see _ his heart trying to jump out of his chest with every beat.

He smiled, putting a hand in Eli’s hair, and leaned in a little closer. “Guess that answers a question I’ve been sitting on since September.”

That made Eli look up at him, the color still blotching his cheeks. “Really?” he asked in a fragile sounding voice.

Phil let out a puff of a laugh and pulled Eli closer. “Really.”

~

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Phil crooned into his boyfriend’s ear.

Eli frowned in his sleep and pulled the covers up closer around his neck. “Nooo…” he groaned pitifully.

“‘Fraid so, babe,” Phil said gently. “It’s twenty till three.”

Eli blindly reached for one of Phil’s hands and looped it over his stomach. “Five more minutes.”

Phil shook his head and kissed Eli’s cheek before tugging his covers down. “C’mon. You’re gonna be late.”

Ten minutes later, Phil and Eli were walking hand in hand to Eli’s Pharmacological Synthesis class, Eli yawning all the way there. Phil had the day mostly to himself after an early xenopsychology class, but poor Eli, who’d been up all night studying and then had two morning classes, was positively  _ wrecked.  _ Their planned couple of hours together had just turned into Eli collapsing into bed for a little sleep, Phil snuggled behind him.

“Sorry I died on you there,” Eli said. “Wasted a couple of hours.”

“Nothing to be sorry about and it’s not a waste,” Phil corrected. “You were exhausted.”

“I’m  _ still _ exhausted,” Eli said on a yawn. “Maybe I’ll be a little more alert after pharm.”

“Yeah,  _ that’s _ likely,” Phil deadpanned, then frowned as they rounded a corner to cross through the central commons. A clowder of agitated students were clustered around a holo-board on the wall, pointing and yelling and creating an atmosphere of general chaos. “What the hell’s this?”

Eli shook his head. “I dunno.”

Phil and Eli parted ways at his classroom door with quick pecks on the cheek, and Phil approached a classmate he identified in the throng above.

“Hi, T’Val,” he said lowly. “What’s the story here?”

“Philip,” T’Val greeted with a stately Vulcan nod. “The Dean has announced Priscilla White as a speaker at this year’s commencement exercises.”

Phil frowned. “Why do I know that name?” he asked under his breath.

“Ms. White is a descendant of prominent opponents to the creation of United Earth,” T’Val elaborated. “She herself has made statements before in support of Terra Prime and related movements.”

“The bombing at the Bolian Embassy,” Phil breathed, recollections of news broadcasts from when he was in high school suddenly swimming in his head.

“Correct,” T’Val affirmed. “She refused to condemn the terrorists in the 2221 bombing, rationalizing their actions as a means of exercising their right to speak freely and  _ ‘protect their heritage.’”  _ She turned her head back toward the information board, where a shiny holographic image of Priscilla White hung in all its glory. “Similarly, the Dean justifies his decision to invite Ms. White to commencement as a celebration of the virtues of free speech.”

“Well, that’s clearly bullshit,” Phil spat.

“I concur,” T’Val said. “To celebrate the freedom of speech with the words of a woman who champions the  destruction of speech and existence unlike her own is not at all logical.”

Phil looked to the side. Another friend of his, Trelt, sat against a wall with her head in her hands, weeping. Phil left T’Val’s side and knelt next to Trelt. “Hey,” he said, just loudly enough to be heard over the commotion.

Trelt looked up; her sclera had gone sky blue from crying and her cheeks were cerulean with anger. “My father,” she said quietly. “He was a clerk. At the Embassy.” Her face crumpled again. “They  _ killed _ him. And  _ she - ”  _ she gestured to the hologram on the info board,  _ “she _ had the fucking  _ gall _ to  _ defend it!” _

Phil put a hand tentatively on Trelt’s shoulder. “Trelt, I’m so sorry. I’m  _ so _ sorry.”

“I came here,” she continued, “because I thought this might be  _ one place _ where I didn’t have to be followed by that. I spent  _ years _ not trusting humans. I thought I could actually be safe among them here.” She trailed off with a line of colloquial Bolian that Phil didn’t understand, but he could infer its impoliteness.

“We’re not gonna let this happen,” Phil found himself saying. “We’re  _ not.  _ You  _ deserve _ to feel safe here, especially at a celebration of everything you’ve worked for here. This is  _ bullshit,  _ Trelt, and we have to do something.”

Trelt rolled her eyes slightly and ran her hand down her scalp. “Graduation’s in less than a month. They’re already printing the programs with her name on them. What do you suggest we do?”

Phil looked at her, smirked a little, and raised one eyebrow.

~

The force field fizzled behind Phil as he was led to a miniscule room with a table, chair, and ancient-looking voice comm.

“You have ten minutes,” the guard told him. “Your comm  _ will _ be monitored. After this call, you may have comm contact for ten minutes per day as long as you are in custody. The only exceptions will be calls to your legal representative, which may happen at any time for as long as necessary. Do you understand, Mr. Boyce?”

Phil nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded at him. “Proceed.”

Phil picked up the comm, trying to suss out who to call. Definitely not Eli; it was late and he needed his rest, and besides, he was a broke college student who couldn’t really help here. Definitely not Trelt either; she’d gotten away without getting arrested and he wasn’t risking her safety. Charlie was a lawyer, which could’ve been helpful; but Charlie would also have to drive in from Portland, which wasn’t ideal.

Taking a deep breath, Phil sucked it up and commed home.

_ “Hello?” _

“Hi, Mom.”

_ “Are you calling about what happened?” _

Phil frowned. “What do you mean?”

_ “The news is on, honey. Something about a protest? Apparently some materials for graduation were destroyed? Nine students got arrested?” _

“Ah.” Phil let out a little self-deprecating laugh. “Well. Yes. That is exactly what I’m calling about.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Mom’s voice dropped an octave.  _ “Phil? Are you under arrest right now?” _

There was something about hearing the words  _ “under arrest” _ coming from one’s mother that was far more skin-crawlingly, pants-wettingly terrifying than hearing the same words coming from a police officer.

“Yes,” Phil answered meekly.

Mom let out a long breath.  _ “Okay. Okay. Waterville Jail?” _

“Yes.”

_ “All right. Sit tight. I’ll be there soon.” _

Phil let out a long, slow breath, disconnected the comm, then stood and nodded to the officer.

Twenty minutes later, Jennifer Boyce’s retirement account was five hundred credits lighter, and she was bundling her boy into the car to drive him home.

They spent the first few minutes of the drive home in silence. Finally, Phil got up the nerve to break it.

“I’m sorry.”

His mom looked over at him, very briefly, then back to the road. “Sorry for what?”

It seemed like a sincere question, which was kind of odd in and of itself. “For...getting arrested?”

Mom was silent for the length of a stop light, then continued. “Tell me what you were arrested for, Phil.”

Phil swallowed. “Disturbing the peace, unlawful assembly, incitement to riot.”

Mom nodded. “Nice rap sheet, son,” she quipped. “And tell me  _ why _ all those things happened.”

“Because the Dean invited Priscilla White to speak and she’s a racist and a xenophobe and a Terra Prime apologist, if not a member. We’re angry. A lot of my friends are scared. Especially the ones who aren’t humans.”

“Right. You were trying to protect people,” Mom summarized. “People didn’t feel safe and you intervened.”

Phil looked over at his mom’s silhouette in the driver’s seat. “Yeah.”

Mom smiled as she turned the car onto a long, tree-lined road that led to the Boyce family home. “I never told you how I met your dad, did I?”

Phil frowned. “Yeah, you did. You told all of us. You were a waitress and he and his buddies came to your restaurant when they were down for a ski vacation.”

“All true. But that’s the sanitized version,” Mom said cheekily. “If your grand-mère ever asks, that’s still the  _ official _ version.”

Phil sat up a little straighter, waiting for Mom to continue.

“So, the basic details are right. Your dad and two of his friends from college were driving from Montreal to Lost Valley for winter break and stopped for dinner at the cafe where I was working. But I wasn’t the only waitress there. I was working with another girl, Maggie something-or-other. She was maybe about fifteen and  _ painfully _ shy - it took her three full shifts to get the nerve to take somebody’s order. Not the kind of girl to make waves.”

“Not like you, in other words,” Phil couldn’t help but interject.

“Bingo,” Mom acknowledged. “So when your dad and his friends came in that day, they were at Maggie’s booth, not mine. She’s the one who waited on them.”

“What happened?”

Mom sighed. “Well, your dad was the only one of that trio who wasn’t acting like an ape. I take that back, actually; that’s an insult to apes. The other two were hitting on Maggie in the  _ most _ offensive ways possible. I’d only had a year of French at that point, but I could gather well enough what they were saying about her when she walked away. Henry told them off for it. He tried to shut them up, he really did, because Maggie looked  _ so _ uncomfortable; but they wouldn’t, because...I don’t know, some macho bullshit. Anyway, she was almost in tears. She and I went to our boss to tell him what was going on and ask if we could switch tables, but he didn’t care and told Maggie that it was part of the job, to  _ suck it up.” _ Mom paused to scoff; Phil saw her dig her nails a little harder into the steering wheel.

“Anyway, I kept an eye on what was going on, and toward the end of the night, one of them - Marc, I think his name was - decided to forego pretense and just grabbed her ass. Right in full view of the entire restaurant.”

Phil swore softly.

“Maggie was so young and so sweet and so damn  _ shy, _ the last thing in the  _ world _ she wanted to do was upset the apple cart by making a scene,” Mom continued. “So I did it for her.”

Phil blinked. “How?”

Mom curled her lips into a smile. “I went over, put my hand on her shoulder, and told her to go back to the kitchen and start packing up for the night. Then I put on my  _ sweetest _ waitress smile, picked up a full glass of ice water off the table, and poured it directly into Marc’s lap.”

Phil guffawed.  _ “Mom!” _

Mom pulled into the driveway, her smile immensely satisfied. “Tony fired me. My parents were _furious;_ that job was paying my tuition. But Maggie kept her job. And your dad asked me for my number.” She turned off the ignition, looked to Phil, and put her hand over his. “I saw something happening that was wrong, so I got in the way to make sure it stopped. Just like you did. We both got punished for it, but it was worth it in the end, for us both. Honey, Priscilla White is a goddamn reincarnation of a nightmare we should’ve put to bed two hundred years ago, and I would much, _much_ rather have my son get arrested in protest of handing her a microphone than have you just sit back and watch it happen.” She smiled softly. “When something happens that is fundamentally _wrong,_ it’s not just _okay_ to get in the way of it happening. It’s the _only_ acceptable thing to do. And I’m _proud_ of you for doing it.”

_ When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty. _

Phil nodded. “You’re awesome, Mom.”

Mom smiled, leaned in, and kissed Phil’s cheek. “So are you, sweet prince.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I got in.”

Phil paused his comparison-shopping of grad school supplies and turned toward Eli. “Hmm?”

Eli was staring at his terminal with a look of sheer  _ joy _ on his face.  _ “Dear Mr. Castorena: We are pleased to welcome you to the Doctor of Pharmacy program at Stanford University.  _ I got in! Phil!  _ I got into Stanford!” _

Phil tackled Eli back down onto the bed and kissed every inch of his face he could reach without letting go of him.  _ “Babe!” _ He smiled hugely, murmuring little  _ congratulations _ and  _ told you so _ and  _ love you _ endearments against his boyfriend’s cheeks. Eli’s fingers dug a little into the skin of Phil’s back.

Phil pulled back, cupped his face, and kissed him soundly. “I am  _ so proud _ of you.”

There were tears pooling in Eli’s eyes. “I can’t believe it,” he said softly. “My  _ dream school.  _ I’m so  _ happy.” _

Something inside of Phil cracked. Something inside of Phil knew that, even in the twenty-third century, it was a hell of a long way from Stanford to Boston. Something inside of Phil recognized this as a death knell.

_ Never, ever ignore your intuition. It is smarter than you are. _

Phil swallowed every ounce of that recognition.

“I’m so happy for you, love.”

That July, two weeks after diplomas had been handed out and caps had been thrown, Phil stood in the Augusta shuttleport, holding Eli tight, burying his face into his boyfriend’s neck. He felt wetness on his forehead; he knew it was from Eli’s tears, but he wasn’t going to look up. Not yet. Not while he could still be holding on tight.

“We’re gonna be okay, right?” Eli asked into Phil’s hair. “We’re gonna figure out a way to make this work?”

Phil nodded furiously. “Yeah. Yeah, we will. I’ll come to you. You come to me. Holidays. Long weekends. Random Tuesdays where we have some time.”

Eli sniffled. “Every moment we can. Every last one.”

_ “Attention, Augusta terminal passengers. The 2115 shuttle to Palo Alto is now boarding at Port 5. Please have your ID ready.” _

“Oh god, Phil, I don’t know if I can do this,” Eli said, clinging a little tighter. “I don’t know if I can do this without you.”

“You can,” Phil immediately reassured. “You can, Eli. You’re brilliant, and you’ve earned this, and  _ you can do this.” _

_ “Augusta terminal passengers, this is the final boarding call for the 2115 shuttle to Palo Alto, boarding at Port 5.” _

“You’ve gotta go, sweetheart. You’ve gotta go.”

Eli looked at Phil now, eyes puffy and weeping, and kissed him, too long and too deep for public consumption, not that they cared.

“I love you,” Eli whispered fiercely into Phil’s lips when they separated.

_ “Elías Castorena, please report to Port 5 for the 2115 shuttle to Palo Alto.” _

“I love you,” Phil said hoarsely. “Go, Eli.  _ Go.” _

Eli squeezed Phil’s hands one more time, then turned and jogged to the shuttlebay doors without looking back.

Phil stood and watched as the engines powered up, the shuttle left the ground, and slowly, slowly, as it disappeared from sight in the western sky.

_ Let others do what they must for themselves, even if it hurts you. _

That was an easier sentiment to embrace at five than it was at twenty-two.

Wiping his eyes, Phil started to make his way out of the shuttleport, then paused in sight of a bar sandwiched between two excessively tacky gift shops. Phil wasn’t much of a drinker, but honestly, after putting Eli on a one-way shuttle to California? He could use a drink.

“What can I get you, doll?” the bartender asked, tossing a long, bright pink curl over her shoulder.

“Martini, please,” Phil husked. “Perfect. With a twist.”

“You look like you’re having a rough night,” she said sympathetically, stirring his drink. “You need an ear? It’s dead in here and I’m bored.”

Phil gave a tiny smile and shook his head. “That’s okay,” he said softly, sipping his martini. “Kind of a long story.” It wasn’t, but he also didn’t really feel like explaining it to a stranger.

The pink-haired bartender nodded. “All right,” she said breezily. “But if you change your mind, I’m here. And you can’t shock me. I’ve heard everything.” She leaned in closer to him.  _ “Everything,  _ doll. Doctors ain’t got  _ shit _ on me.” She winked coyly.

_ Sometimes people will tell their bartender things they’ll never tell their doctor. _

Phil took a long, steady sip of his drink and looked up at her. “So, my boyfriend’s on his way to California…”

~

Phil delayed his move to Boston as long as he could, trying to savor as much time with his family as possible. He needed to soak up as much of his parents’ wisdom, his siblings’ humor, his dog’s love, his nieces and nephews’ wonder at the world as he could. Especially with Eli gone, and with many of his college friends having scattered planet-wide - or galaxy-wide, in some cases - he was rather lonely, something he knew would really amp up once he left the idyllic suburban comfort of Maine for grad school in the nearest metropolis. 

(He also went to a lot of protests. And got arrested again. Three times. Hey, he  _ really _ missed his boyfriend.  _ When in need of a distraction, find a cause.) _

Eli and Phil talked at least once a day, every day, for the rest of July and all of August - sometimes long, drawn out, intimate conversations only broken by either someone falling asleep or someone’s stomach growling and killing the mood; sometimes brief little  _ “I’m alive but exhausted talk tomorrow love you” _ pings into the universe.

Boston was massive, chaotic, and weird. Phil had lived in Waterville his whole life, and he’d never been farther than the little city in Quebec where his grandmother lived. He had always been an adaptable kind of guy, but this culture shock was pretty dramatic, even for him. He knew he’d acclimate in time, but  _ god,  _ he’d totally underestimated how  _ weird _ this experience would be.

“How did you do this?” he asked Eli one night on a comm after showing off his new, box-strewn apartment. “Florida to Maine, Maine to California? How?”

Eli smiled and rolled his eyes fondly. “You’ve been there  _ two days, _ Phil. You’ll adjust. It’ll be easier once you get back into school.”

“I better adjust soon,” Phil muttered. “I have to take the rapid transit system to class - ”

“It’s called the T, babe.”

“- right, the T, and it’s  _ freaky.”  _ He shuddered a little bit. “I know it’s existed for hundreds of years and people take it every day, but I swear there were more people in the train car I was in today than were in all of Waterville when I was growing up.”

Eli shook his head and grinned. “Give it time. You’ll be fine once you’re back in a classroom.”

He was right. Having long since known that he wanted to be a doctor, Phil planned on going to medical school in the end; but he also wanted a more solid foundation in looking at healthcare through multiple lenses. He didn’t just want to understand medicine from a clinical perspective; he wanted to understand the dimensions of access, geography, economics, sociology, psychology, xenology, history -  _ everything.  _ Phil didn’t just want to be a doctor; he wanted to be an advocate and an activist. So he decided to get a master’s degree in public health, and  _ then _ go to med school.

When he explained his rationale to his family, Sarah called him  _ “the biggest damn nerd I’ve ever met in my life.” _ Phil took it as the compliment it was and thanked her.

_ “Nerd” is a peculiar compliment paid to one who is enthusiastic about the complexity of life. Embrace it. _

His MPH coursework was fascinating, but brutal; the people were friendly enough, but talked twice as fast as Phil usually did, which made it kind of hard to keep up with them. He frequently came home from class with cell-deep exhaustion, but he still made it a point to call Eli every night, even if only briefly. Sometimes Eli picked up. Sometimes he didn’t. Phil thought nothing of it - his boyfriend was drowning in even more schoolwork than he was; no doubt he was beat, too. They made arrangements for Eli to come to Boston over winter break, the first time he and Phil would be together since their painful goodbye at the shuttleport that summer. Phil started counting down the hours six weeks in advance.

When December finally,  _ finally _ rolled around, Phil barely slept the night before Eli came in. He spent most of the day refreshing the transport page to ensure that the shuttle was on time. He got to the shuttleport forty-five minutes early. He brought Eli  _ flowers,  _ for god’s sake.  _ Romantic,  _ he thought.  _ So adult, _ he thought.  _ Am I really this much of a dweeb?  _ he thought.

Eli stepped into the terminal looking  _ so _ good. And...oddly different. Phil couldn’t pinpoint it. He was thinner, for sure - that was rather obvious. Better clothing, perhaps, and definitely carrying himself with a new air of confidence. He had a growth of stubble on his chin that he’d never worn in undergrad. Had he grown taller?

“Hey, you,” he said, with a warm smile and outstretched arms.

Phil buried himself in those arms and inhaled deeply and -  _ yes.  _ That sweet smell was still the same. “Hi,” he said into Eli’s chest. He pulled back and handed over the flowers. “Don’t think I’m a total idiot, but - ”

Eli’s grin grew, and he pecked Phil on the temple. “You’re precious.”

Phil threaded his arm around Eli’s waist as they made their way out of the shuttleport to Phil’s car. “I missed you so much.”

Eli squeezed Phil’s shoulder. “Missed you too.”

After that moment of precious affection, things got...odd.

They went back to Phil’s apartment. Phil made dinner. They had a brief, perfunctory conversation about school. They ate in silence. Eli and Phil had shared plenty of silences before, but they’d always been comfortable. This one was sharp, hard, and heavy. Again -  _ odd. _

The oddness repeated the next day. And the day after that. And after that. Little conversation. Few gestures of affection. No sex whatsoever. Phil had asked Eli at one point if everything was okay; he’d said it was, even though it clearly wasn’t, and Phil had spent the next two days silently trying to figure out how to return to the subject without making Eli feel defensive.

Christmas Eve morning, Phil woke up with the sun. The other half of the bed was empty, and he smelled coffee. Padding out to the tiny kitchen, he saw Eli sitting at the table, hair wet from a shower, a mug between his palms.

“Hey,” he said softly, not wanting to startle him.

Eli looked up at him and smiled, very softly. “Hey.”

Phil pulled out the chair next to him, sat down, and leaned in, putting his elbows on his knees, folding his hands. “Eli, what’s going on?” he asked, in the gentlest voice he could manage.

For a moment, Eli didn’t say anything. He just stared into his coffee.

“I don’t want to ruin Christmas,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Phil’s pulse skipped erratically. “You’re frightening me,” he said, ignoring the heartbeat in his throat. “Please talk to me.”

Eli took a deep breath and looked up to the ceiling. In the early light filtering through the window, Phil could see his eyes glistening a little bit. Eli turned to face Phil and grabbed both of his hands; Phil could feel the warmth from Eli’s coffee cup spreading into his own skin.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last five months,” Eli said quietly, eyes still on their joined hands. “A lot of evolving. You’ve noticed, I know.” Phil nodded, but Eli didn’t look up. “I’m  _ really _ happy in California. I’m more confident. I feel like...like I  _ know _ myself better than I did in July. And definitely better than when you met me three years ago. And I like it.”

Phil felt a strange tremor start in his chest. Some weird cellular memory kicked him back to his and Eli’s embrace when he was accepted to Stanford, when the word  _ death knell _ floated in his mind’s orbit. This felt like fruition.

Finally, finally, Eli looked up and made eye contact with Phil. “I’ve changed, Phil,” he said gently. “A lot. And with all the distance between us now, and all the changes going on in your life and mine, I think it’s better for us both if we move forward separately.”

Phil closed his eyes, feeling a tear streak down his cheek as he did. He took a slow, tremulous breath, trying not to shake, trying not to beg, trying not to vomit. “You want us to break up,” he said in a voice that did not sound much like his own.

Eli reached out and thumbed Phil’s tears away. “I’m sorry, Phil,” he whispered. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

In the space of those words, Phil got an abrupt course in the multidimensional nature of heartbreak. His chest felt heavy and burdened. Everything around him seemed to lose all its color. A million phrases curled themselves at the base of his tongue -  _ please don’t _ and  _ but I love you  _ and  _ what am I doing wrong _ and  _ is there someone else _ and  _ why why why  _ \- all selfish, bitter, unkind words that Phil knew he could hurl right now out of hurt, if he wanted to, negating all of his own principles in the process.

_ You can’t make decisions for someone else. _

_ Let others do what they must for themselves, even if it hurts you. _

_ Love. No matter what. _

Perhaps Eli could see what Phil was blind to: that this was the best of a series of bad options.

_ Maybe the thing that really makes true love beautiful and ethereal is the ability to let it go. _

Not that that understanding made this suck any less.

Phil nodded slowly. “Okay,” he managed to say, wiping his cheek on the shoulder of his shirt without letting go of Eli’s hands. “Okay.”

Eli squeezed his hands. “Are you okay?”

Phil laughed wetly. “No,” he admitted. “But I will be.”

While Eli quietly arranged for an afternoon shuttle back to Palo Alto, Phil sent a text comm to his family, letting them know what had happened and begging them not to call or text him until tomorrow. (Phil had mental images of Dad physically barricading Mom from calling him right that second, which made him smile a little bit.) Within a few hours, they were back at the shuttleport, and Phil was assaulted with memories of the last time he put Eli on a shuttle to California, of Eli holding him tight and telling him he didn’t think he could do this without Phil. Phil had insisted he could.  _ Apparently, you were right,  _ that demon at the base of Phil’s tongue scoffed.

_ No,  _ Phil told himself.  _ No. Bitterness is ugly. You’re better than that, and he deserves better than that from you. _

Eli turned and faced Phil, his duffel slung over his shoulder, and reached out to hold Phil’s hands, gripping them tight. His face was open, sincere, and sad. “I’m sorry, Phil,” he said again. “I’m so sorry.”

Phil squeezed his hands, nodded, and tried to smile. “I want you to be happy,” he said quietly. “And if this is what you need to be happy, then...then it’s okay.”

“Listen,” Eli said, “this doesn’t have to be a  _ forever goodbye,  _ does it? I mean, maybe we can comm each other from time to time, or see each other when we’re in town or something?”

Phil nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. In time.”

Eli nodded. “In time.”

_ “Attention, Greater Boston terminal passengers. The 1400 shuttle to Palo Alto is now boarding at Port 14-A. Please have your ID ready.” _

“That’s me,” Eli said, even as he kept on holding Phil’s hands. Of all the heart-wrenching things about that day, Phil thought, that had been the worst: that Eli had made  _ him _ be the one to let go. When he did, Eli pecked Phil’s cheek - a friendly, gentle peck, one already drained of the three years of consummate love they’d shared.

“Be good to yourself, Phil,” he said, maintaining eye contact while backing away from him.

Phil nodded, not yet able to speak. He watched as Eli turned, boarded the shuttle, and again, in an eerie echo of July, as it took off and disappeared into the horizon.

“Bye, Eli,” he whispered to the window.

Things after that got blurry. He did not remember his drive home from the terminal. He did not remember walking into his empty apartment and hearing the silence settle around him. He  _ did _ remember looking in at the table on the far side of the bed - Eli’s side of the bed - and seeing the bouquet of flowers he'd brought to the shuttleport just a few days ago.

And then he remembered collapsing in marrow-deep sobs.

Phil had drawn hearts in the sand with his finger, hoping,  _ expecting,  _ that they would somehow last forever. But then a rogue wave crashed through all his hopes and expectations and washed it all away, all that effort, all that energy, all that  _ love,  _ and he was left there standing in the sand, with his head in his hands and his heart washed out to sea, feeling powerless and astounded and raw, full to the brim with a simultaneous respect for and resentment of the waves. It was a bizarre, ugly dichotomy that he didn’t know how to navigate.

He didn’t remember calling Sarah, but apparently he did, because three hours and one last-minute shuttle later she was standing at his front door, strong and wise and full of things Phil wasn’t sure he understood, her arms open to receive him.

“Thought I told you not to get your heart broken,” she murmured into his hair.

“I tried,” Phil managed tightly.

“I know you did,” she said. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

~

“Mr. Boyce. Glad to see you, kid.”

Phil’s graduate advisor was Dr. Morgan, a genuine, born-and-bred Bostonian Irishman who’d never pronounced a rhotic consonant in his life. He was friendly, whip-smart, and always willing to hear any sentence that started with the words  _ “This might be crazy, but what if…” _ Phil liked him a lot.

“What’s up?” he asked, helping himself to the chair in front of Dr. Morgan’s cluttered desk.

“Wanna talk to you about this,” he said, holding up a PADD. Phil glanced at it, recognizing a paper he’d submitted two weeks ago.

“Is something wrong with it?”

_ “Wrong _ with it?!” Dr. Morgan burst. “Hell no, there’s nothing  _ wrong _ with it. Kid, this is fuckin’  _ poetry.  _ This is thesis-quality material, right here.”

Phil raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times. “Um. Thank you.”

Dr. Morgan consulted a different PADD. “You’re progressing too damn quickly through this program, Phil. You’re already over your required credits for graduation.”

Phil had not known this, but he also wasn’t at all surprised. After the breakup, Phil coped by throwing himself into classes, distracting himself from the still-sore phantom bruises left by Eli’s absence with xenomedical textbooks and epidemiology case studies. He’d dramatically upped his course load and typically studied right up until he fell into a brief, fitful sleep, usually waking up the next day with the imprint of a PADD on his face.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Dr. Morgan returned his attention to Phil’s paper. “In case you’re not picking up on it, what I’m suggesting is that you use this - ” he waved the PADD in the air a few times for emphasis,  _ “ - as  _ your thesis, and graduate in June.”

_ Now _ Phil was surprised. “Oh.”

“Now, I can get a thesis committee together for you, no problem,” Dr. Morgan continued. “The only question is, can you prepare a defense in four weeks?”

Well, yeah, of course he could. It’d be something else to do to suffocate the pain of Eli’s absence, to distract Phil from poking at phantom bruises and seeing if they still hurt. (Spoiler: They still hurt.) But did he  _ want _ to? He knew med school would be next, and while he felt ready for it intellectually, he felt woefully unprepared for it  _ practically.  _ He’d only taken the MCAT once, and while his score was decent, he’d wanted to retake it to see if it could be improved upon. He certainly hadn’t applied anywhere yet. Why would he, with a year left to go? The uncertainty was disquieting.

But on the other hand: What was he going to do with an extra year of grad school, when he  _ could _ put it toward being a doctor sooner?

_ Opportunities sometimes disguise themselves as threats. Learn to tell the difference. _

“Yeah,” Phil said slowly. “Yeah. I can prepare a defense in four weeks.”

~

After a ridiculous day of grocery shopping, picking up his cap and gown, and heading to the shuttleport to retrieve his family, then shoehorning them into his little one-bedroom apartment, Phil’s comm buzzed. Dr. Morgan wanted to see him.  _ Great. _

Not wanting to wait for the lift, he took the stairs two at a time to Dr. Morgan’s office, which meant he arrived sweaty and disgusting, with his hair pasted to his forehead. Well, at least they couldn’t take back his successful defense at this point.

“You wanted to see me?” he said, mildly out of breath.

Dr. Morgan just smiled at Phil, then turned his head. Phil followed his eyeline. There was a regal-looking woman standing at the window, her silver hair off her neck in an elaborate updo, a kind smile on her face. There were two gold braids on the cuffs of her instantly recognizable bright blue Starfleet tunic.

“Mr. Boyce?” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Dr. Sarah April, Starfleet Medical Division. I’m an old friend of Steve’s, and I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Phil took her hand, smiling politely. “Nice to meet you, Dr. April,” he said, marginally befuddled. “At the risk of sounding abrupt, why am I meeting you right now?”

She smiled. “I understand you’re wanting to become a doctor.”


	5. Chapter 5

_ “Morning alarm: Cadet Boyce. Morning alarm: Cadet Boyce.” _

Phil moaned spectacularly and tugged the covers over his head. “No.”

_ “Morning alarm: Cadet Boyce.” _

“Computer,” he finally mumbled, “ten more minutes.”

_ “Warning,”  _ the robotic voice responded.  _ “Delaying the morning alarm will result in tardiness to your first appointment.” _

“That’s a polysyllabic way of saying  _ you’re gonna be late,”  _ Phil snapped, admitting defeat and tossing off the covers. “Fine, you win. Cancel alarm.”

The computer obediently  _ bee-boop _ ed. Phil headed to the shower and awaited his auto-briefing.

_ “Today is stardate 2228.07. In Standard, today is Monday, January 7, 2228. The current time is 0632 hours. This is the first day of the winter term at Starfleet Academy. Your agenda today consists of the following items: 0730 hours: Elementary Survival Strategies; 0930 hours: Primary Care of Women Lecture; 1130 hours: Meeting with Dr. April; 1230 hours: Intermediate Flight Dynamics for Non-Pilots; 1400 hours: meal break; 1500 hours: Xenocardiology Practical; 1800 hours: Impacts of Faster-Than-Light Travel on Biological Functions. Overcast skies are forecast today with a predicted high temperature of twelve degrees Celsius.” _

Phil stood under the shower and let the punishing-hot water beat him awake for as long as he thought he could get away with it. Then he brushed his teeth, shaved, put his uniform on, and grabbed his PADDs before he left his apartment. On the way, he stopped and bought a small coffee and a banana, both of which he inhaled before he reached his 0730 class.

He always preferred to sit by the window in classes - he always thought best when he was looking at something alive and in motion, not at Starfleet-issue grey walls - but all the window seats were taken. With a slight  _ hrmph,  _ he took a seat in the second row, toward the middle of the pack, and tried desperately to stay awake long enough for the coffee to kick in and do the job for him.

His eyes gravitated toward the window, where, true to the forecast, the clouds were gathering thick and heavy over the skyline. The grass was valiantly green, even in January, a tiny rebellion against nature’s cycles. It made Phil ache for the snowy wonderland of Maine.

Without warning, the clouds broke, and a rogue sunbeam streaked in through the window. Phil squinted painfully at the sudden brightness, let his eyes adjust, and then refocused them on what that sunbeam spotlighted: the thick blond curls of a cadet, one row up and one to the left from where Phil was sitting.

Phil’s eyes fixated on the sight without obvious reason. It looked almost humorously angelic.

“All right, listen up,” called a petite cadet in an upperclassman’s uniform. “I’m Cadet Paris, your TA. Commander Mehl is on her way. Be in your seats when she gets here, and for god’s sake, don’t piss her off.”

There was a minor shuffle as everyone arranged themselves accordingly, taking Paris’ statement for the warning shot that it was. In the midst of the shuffling, the blond cadet sitting in the sunbeam turned his head for the first time, letting Phil see his face.

In less than a second, everything else in the room fizzled into holy, unlanguagable nothingness. An ache began in Phil’s chest, like something had just flowered into bloom, as though his heart had cracked and opened up a new chamber previously unknown to him. The world seemed to simultaneously reduce and expand to twin oceans of grey-blue, lightly stubbled fair skin dusted with faint freckles, a halo of spun gold, and a soft, upturned mouth that seemed trapped somewhere between a shy smile and a self-assured smirk, and Phil had  _ no _ idea how something could be  _ both _ at the same time.

Something inside of Phil - his intuition, his heart, the voice of god, whatever - spoke to him with a clarity and ferocity he’d never experienced, insisting that  _ you will never be the same after this moment, never, because your life and his life are about to weave together so seamlessly and so completely that you create a new fabric of your own, interdependent, complementary, expansive, and beautiful. _

“Oh,” Phil whispered, too softly to be heard by anyone else.

_ Never, ever ignore your intuition. It is smarter than you are. _

“Welcome to Elementary Survival Strategies,” Phil heard distantly. “I’m Commander Mehl, and I’ll be your instructor for this term.”

_ Okay, calm down, self,  _ Phil silent chastised himself, vigorously shaking his head to force his senses to redeploy.  _ You don’t even know his name. Maybe take a beat before you declare undying love. _

“In this course, we will be focusing on the theoretical bases of survival strategies; in the intermediate and advanced courses, you will…”

_ His hair looks soft, _ Phil’s mind butted in.  _ Shiny. Oh, great, you’re being distracted by shiny objects now? Focus. _

“I will repeat that in simpler terms: You will pass this course, or you will not graduate.”

_ I wonder what his voice sounds like,  _ Phil’s mind said.  _ I bet it’s nice. Comforting. Kind of - FOCUS, PHILIP. _

“Are there any questions about that?”

_ I hope I get to see him smile soon. Really smile. _

Okay, this was goddamn  _ ridiculous.  _ Phil had to do something to shake himself out of this fantastical adolescent jaunt his brain was on. Anything to redirect his energy and attention.

“Very well, boys and girls; if you would - ”

_ That’ll do. _ It was borderline, and in other circumstances, he might’ve let it slide, but he was desperate.

“Commander,” Phil interjected, in his most patient but insistent social justice warrior tone, “your language is both condescending and exclusionary of many human and nonhuman gender identities.”

_ When in need of a distraction, find a cause. _

Phil heard - and, in his periphery, saw - his classmates all swivel around toward him in comically slow motion. Commander Mehl arched an eyebrow in his direction. Behind her, Phil saw Cadet Paris, sitting at the instructor’s desk, bury her head in her hands.

“Excuse me?” Mehl said, in the same tone that other people might say  _ you wanna die today? _

Phil was undeterred. “It would be more appropriate to refer to us collectively as ‘cadets,’ given that you do not know the specific gender identities of every cadet in this room,” he said, putting on a smile he got straight from his mother. “Many Federation member species have more than two genders, or two genders that do not correspond to the human  _ male _ and  _ female,  _ or no gender at all, not to mention the many humans whose gender does not fit into the mythical human norm of the gender binary. Further, to refer to us with a diminutive like  _ boys and girls  _ minimizes the high accomplishments of everyone in this room, particularly for our human female cadets, who, as I’m sure you’re aware, have historically had to work considerably harder than their male colleagues to not simply be another ‘girl’ in a ‘boys’ club’ like Starfleet or any other military organization.”

Mehl was looking at him with the same kind of look he imagined she might throw to a cockroach she found scurrying around her kitchen floor. “And your name is?” she asked dangerously.

“Cadet Philip Boyce, Commander. Second year medical student.” And then, because he  _ could not help himself,  _ “I will generally accept ‘he’ and ‘him’ pronouns.”

Faintly, he heard Cadet Paris murmur a low “ _ Oh nooo…” _

Mehl pursed her lips, then turned to Paris, her ponytail flipping over her shoulder as she did. “Cadet Paris, please make a note to remind me to enter a demerit in Cadet Boyce’s file at the conclusion of class, for interrupting a superior officer and for general  _ cheek.” _

Phil kept his face serenely impassive. As soon as Mehl’s back was turned, his eyes flitted back to the blond cadet, who was now staring at him with something approaching a sense of wonder on his face. Eyebrows raised, the blond nodded at Phil approvingly, as if to say  _ well done, man. _

Again, because Phil  _ could not help himself,  _ he winked.

The blond’s lips quivered, then stretched into a wide, beautiful grin. In his mind, Phil grappled frantically for something - anything - to grab hold of, because he was falling,  _ hard. _

_ I made him smile,  _ he thought.  _ I made him smile. _

Commander Mehl cleared her throat. “All right -  _ cadets - ”  _ she looked pointedly at Phil, “ - please open the first file on your terminal, which addresses the most common threats to your survival in the field.”

~

Phil made it a general rule to try very hard to hate as few things as possible. He could have his preferences, and he could even strongly dislike things, but  _ hate _ implied something else. He  _ preferred _ sleeping in to getting up early; he  _ disliked _ olives; he  _ hated _ injustice. There were differences, and he wanted to be explicit about them.

So it really said something that Phil  _ hated _ Thursdays.

Thursdays started with PT at the unholy hour of 0630, followed by an exceptionally boring three-hour “warp mechanics for non-engineers” class, a xenomicrobiology lab with his least favorite professor, no meal break until 1500 hours, and then two lectures, one in the military chain of command for medical professionals that was utterly pointless and one in Starfleet weaponry that made the pacifist in him cringe heartily. Unsurprisingly, by the time he was dragging himself out of his last class of the day at 2200 hours, he was grouchy and in need of a drink, a meal, and a six-hour nap, in that order.

The first Thursday of winter term, however, was marred by the absence of one key variable. He hadn’t been to the store in a frighteningly long time. Unless he wanted a dinner of raw kale and ketchup, with coffee creamer instead of a martini, he was going to have to go somewhere and get himself some food.

This is how he found himself in a bar on Booze Row, just on the outskirts of the Academy grounds and two blocks from his apartment, inhaling a beer and the lone vegetarian item on their menu, a plate of nachos that would definitely keep him up tonight with all manner of gastrointestinal maladies. After he’d cleaned his plate, Phil paid his tab, then sat for a moment, intending to finish his beer before he headed home.

“Kyle, come on, don’t,” Phil heard several seats down from him. He turned; it took him a second to tell who had spoken.

“Oh, Hannah,” some smarmy-looking upperclassman said condescendingly. He was talking to a blonde who was probably  _ barely _ old enough to legally be in this bar. He tossed an arm around her shoulders; Phil watched as she kind of shrank in on herself. “I did all the right things, didn’t I? I was nice, I bought you a drink...told you how pretty you looked in that dress.”

Phil’s stomach lurched.  _ She’s clearly swept off her feet, you articulate fuck. _

“I’m not feeling good,” Hannah said. “Kyle, I really just want to go home.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’re making this into a  _ way _ bigger deal than it needs to be...you like me, right?” Kyle put his hand on Hannah’s chin and forced her to face him.

“Yeah, I do, but - ”

“But what?” Kyle interrupted. “I’ll get you another drink if you want before we go...something to help you relax.”

_ Why you absolute piece of shit, _ Phil said, his fingers balling into a fist.

“Kyle, no.  _ No.  _ Please just take me home.”

“Now, now, baby.”

_ Okay, that’s it,  _ Phil thought. He stood up from the bar, abandoning his beer, and prepared to show this lowlife the proper penalty for playing deaf to the word  _ no.  _ But before he got there…

_ “Hey!” _

Phil paused, looking toward the patio of the bar, trying to figure out who’d just yelled.

“What do you want, plebe?” Phil heard Kyle scoff. Into the light stepped... _ oh, hi, handsome. _

The blond from Survival Strategies. Something-or-other Pike, wasn’t it?

“There a problem here?” Pike intoned darkly.

Kyle chuckled under his breath. “Who are you, her baby brother?”

“No,” Pike said, in a low, dangerous voice that did  _ ridiculous _ things to Phil’s solar plexus. “But I could hear her tell you  _ no _ from ten feet away even when you apparently couldn’t from right next to her.”

_ Always fight with your brain and your words instead of your fists. _

If Phil hadn’t had a crush on him before, he sure as hell did now.

Kyle turned, rolled his eyes, and downed a shot off the bar. While his back was turned, Phil saw Pike give a tiny nod to Hannah, who slipped off her barstool and made a beeline out the back door. There was more posturing from Pike and Kyle at the double doors that led to the patio, now with added shoving - Pike had thrown his PADDs to the ground - and then a sickening  _ crack _ as Kyle landed a punch,  _ hard,  _ and Pike’s nose started bleeding profusely.

_ Shit.  _ Phil fought through the gathering crowd, determined to intervene, but was forestalled when Pike kneed Kyle in the groin, forcing him back into the crowd.  _ Nice one, kid. _

Understandably, it took Kyle a minute to recover, which Phil used to his advantage.

_ The only acceptable use for violence is in protecting someone from harm. _

As Kyle was rearing back to take another shot, Phil channeled his mother pouring ice water into Marc’s lap in that cafe decades ago and tapped Kyle on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” he said politely.

Kyle turned. 

_ Curl your fingers down. Impact on the first two fingers. Horizontal. From the shoulder. _

Without breaking his smile, Phil squeezed his fist and punched the  _ shit _ out of Kyle, who dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Phil grimaced a little - Charlie had never taught him how much that  _ hurt _ to do - and looked up to Pike, who still had blood dripping from his nose. Realizing they were still in a crowded bar, which had suddenly gone very quiet with all eyes focused on them, they both quickly made for the exit. Phil tripped over Pike’s PADDs on his way out and stooped to pick them up, handing them over.

Pike obviously couldn’t go back to his own dorm in this condition; it was late, yes, but his nose was obviously broken and needed fixing, and his reds were dotted with blood, too. “You’re in plebe dorms, I assume?” Phil said. When Pike nodded, Phil gently took him by the elbow. “My room’s closer. C’mon. I can get you patched up.”

“Thanks,” Pike said, a little nasally. “It’s probably broken, isn’t it?”

“Sure looks that way.”

Pike rolled his eyes. “Great job, Chris,” he muttered to himself.

_ Chris, _ Phil thought. His name was  _ Chris. _

“Nothing a little regen can’t fix,” Phil soothed.

Once they got to his apartment, Chris stood just inside the front door for a moment, looking around, with this funny look on his face that Phil couldn’t quite decipher yet but  _ wanted _ to,  _ badly. _ Phil collected his tricorder, his osteoregenerator, and a capillary sealant from his medkit and urged Chris to sit on the sofa, while he sat on the coffee table right in front of him.

“Ooh,  _ three  _ fractures,” Phil pronounced dramatically. “The asshat did a great job on you.”

“Fucking fabulous,” Chris groaned, wincing mildly as Phil carefully ran the regen over one, two, three fractures, then used the capillary sealant to stop the copious bleeding. Phil wanted to use his time this close to this face to look  _ everywhere,  _ at his eyes and his lips and his skin and his cleft chin and the way his hair curled in little ringlets around his ears - but he stayed professional, he stayed  _ rational,  _ keeping his eyes on Chris’ nose.

(He had a cute nose.)

Distantly, Phil heard the three tones that indicated the Academy’s 2300 curfew. Chris looked down to his watch. “Oh  _ hell,  _ it’s curfew.”

Phil kept running the sealant over the bridge of Chris’ nose. “So crash here.”

“Really?”

Phil looked up to Chris’ eyes and shrugged. “I’ve got a couch. No big deal.”

Chris tried to smile without disrupting his still-healing nose. “Thanks, Boyce.”

Phil melted.  _ Oh god, I’m such a goner.  _ “Call me Phil, kid.”

~

In the first few months of being Chris Pike’s friend, Phil catalogued several observations.

_ 1\. He put a truly sickening amount of sugar in his coffee. _

That first morning, after Phil healed Chris’ broken nose and Chris slept on Phil’s couch, Chris was kind enough to go out and get coffee for them. (Why he didn’t just  _ make _ it instead of  _ buying _ it, Phil wasn’t yet sure.) That was lovely...until Phil looked over and, with growing horror, counted how many heaping tablespoons of sugar were going into Chris’ coffee cup.

“Seven?” Phil asked, mouth agape. “You put  _ seven tablespoons _ of sugar in your coffee?!”

Chris took a sip, winced, and reached for the sugar bowl again. “Too bitter.”

Phil just stared in abject horror.

_ 2\. His smartassery knew no bounds. _

After Commander Mehl made the team consisting of Phil, Chris, and two other cadets stay after class so she could illustrate in condescendingly precise detail exactly  _ what _ they had gotten so very  _ wrong _ about their holographic survival simulation, the four of them walked out of the classroom, with Chris at the head of the pack.

“She doesn’t like  _ how _ we survived,” Phil grumbled. “Never mind  _ that _ we survived. Never mind that we accomplished the  _ very basic _ point of this entire class. She doesn’t like our  _ methodology.” _

Chris just smiled and shook his head breezily. “Terribly sorry she missed hovering over her morning antelope carcass,” he snarked under his breath. “Please send complaints to Christopher V. Pike, in care of Kiss My Ass Agency.”

Phil guffawed and made a note to be careful about Chris and Lily ever meeting. Two people that bone dry in the same room could have ecological consequences.

_ 3\. He couldn’t cook. _

No, he  _ seriously  _ couldn’t cook. Chris Pike was a brilliant man who understood diplomatic principles and warp physics and Federation history and dozens of other topics with a depth that made Phil dizzy, but the man was  _ epically flummoxed _ by a pot of boiling water.

So when Chris came knocking on Phil’s door at 0800 hours on a Sunday with a duffel bag over one shoulder, the distinct odor of scalded butter on his person, and what looked like some kind of batter in his hair, it really wasn’t much of a surprise.

“Hey. Could I crash here indefinitely?”

Phil just moved to the side and let him in. The answer was obviously  _ yes.  _ “What happened?”

Chris chuckled bashfully and rubbed the back of his neck. “Kinda set my dorm room on fire?”

Phil blinked. “How?”

“Pancakes,” he said. “Girlfriend. Romance. Breakfast in bed. Pancakes.”

_ This _ was why Chris went out and paid for coffee instead of making it.  _ This.  _ Right here.

“Oh, you sweet disaster.”

_ 4\. He seemed content to settle. _

Chris was fine with sleeping on Phil’s shitty couch instead of applying for another roommate where he could get an actual bed. He was fine wearing a uniform shirt that was clearly a size too small for him until it started literally falling apart at the seams. He was fine using an outdated PADD, drinking discount coffee, and washing with that citrus-scented shampoo that came in huge bottles for half a credit at the Academy bodega, and he wouldn’t get a new razor of his own accord, even when he was doing more cutting than shaving, unless Phil bought a six-pack of disposables and begged Chris to take half of them.

Phil couldn’t tell yet if this was a side effect of poverty or a side effect of low self-esteem. Maybe both. He hoped this pattern wasn’t also there in his relationships, but the odds didn’t seem to be on his side.

_ 5\. He had a weird relationship with touch. _

Chris didn’t talk much about his family or his childhood. Phil got more out of him in one conversation they held when they were in separate rooms under the cover of darkness than he ever got out of him in the light of day. He’d been an  _ oops _ of a pregnancy with a severely ill mother and a largely absent and borderline neglectful father, raised by a loving grandfather who’d died and an an unloving grandmother who hadn’t; Phil had enough details on the family constellation to explain a lot of Chris’ issues with attachment and trust. If Phil were inclined to fall back on his undergrad psych degree, he’d extend that to his relationship with touch; but it seemed like there was something else going on there.

Chris seemed at once  _ addicted _ to touch and  _ terrified _ of it.

It seemed like his instinct was to lean toward being touchy-feely. Hugs, back-pats, arms around shoulders - they all seemed to come naturally to him. But then, it was almost like Chris caught himself two seconds too late, like those friendly touches came with this aura of...what  _ was _ that? Guilt? Shame? Toxic masculinity run amok? Phil couldn’t pinpoint it, but it was unquestionably negative.

Didn’t seem to impact his sex life, though. Speaking of which...

_ 6\. All indications pointed to him being straight. _

Between context clues in discussions of Chris’ adolescence, the fact that he started seeing a woman a couple months after he and Phil met, and the painstaking, vodka-fueled explanation Phil had had to give him of what exactly bisexuality was, Phil had to admit that there was absolutely  _ no _ reason to believe that Chris Pike did not live on the far left of the Kinsey Scale. (A shitty and outdated metric, but it had its utility, especially when one’s heart hurts.)

And that was fine. Really, it was. Kind of a bitter pill to swallow, sure, but not the first time this had happened to Phil, nor, probably, the last. It was a relatively common occupational hazard of being queer. It was fine. It was just a crush. It would go away in time and they could go on and be best friends. Maybe when they were in their fifties he’d tell Chris that story about thinking the universe was speaking to him when he first saw Chris’ face and they’d have a nice good laugh about it.

It was just a crush. It would go away.

_ Lying to others is bad. Lying to yourself is worse. _

He was fine. Everything was fine.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Maine. Phil was lying on the couch right under the big picture window in the living room, with all the lights off except for the steady blue glow of the Christmas tree. Outside, it was late day twilight, with snow falling thick and fast and winds whipping it up, very nearly a genuine blizzard. Both beautiful and frightening, violent and serene. The kind of heavy grey sky he loved, the kind that told a story. _

_ “It’s gorgeous,” a low, grumbly voice mumbled from Phil’s chest, where a gentle pressure like a weighted blanket fell. Between his fingers, Phil felt threads of golden silk, and he traced them through, over and over again. He caught a whiff of cheap citrus shampoo. “Kinda scary, though. Glad it can’t hurt us in here.” _

_ “It’s like space that way,” Phil said. “Intimidating, maybe even threatening, but so beautiful.” _

_ The hand on his chest migrated around his waist and hugged him tightly, the blue of the Christmas lights giving him an angelic halo. Grey-blue eyes looked up to him, and they were so close now that they were breathing the same breath, that they were exchanging all that was good in each of them.  _

_ He tasted like summer, and Phil let himself get lost in the warmth and the light. _

“Yo, Boyce!” Kathy the charge nurse’s voice boomed. “We’ve got a live one for ya!”

So anyway, Phil had a dream about Chris and then he started to  _ worry. _

~

“Hi, Dr. Kelly,” Phil said in between sips of black,  _ very strong _ coffee.

“Boyce,” his attending greeted pleasantly. “You look like shit.”

Dr. Kelly was  _ somehow _ in perfectly pressed scrubs, full makeup, and her hair up in an impeccable French twist. At  _ four in the goddamn morning. _ Phil wondered if they’d covered Looking Amazing in the Middle of the Night on a day when he’d been out sick or something.

“Thank you,” Phil said congenially. “What’ve we got?”

Dr. Kelly set a PADD in front of him. “Jillian Ginsburg. Seventeen-year-old primip, forty-one weeks’ gestation, unplanned pregnancy, plans for adoption, no pertinent med/surg history. Two, ninety, and zero station. Ruptured. We’ve gotta get some pit going. And you, my beloved third-year, get to go get her consent.”

Phil nodded absently, flipping through the chart on the PADD. “She’s only seventeen. What’s her social situation look like?”

“FOB’s been out of the picture since the beginning,” Dr. Kelly said, scratching her eyebrow. “Her parents are here, but  _ support _ isn’t the first word I’d reach for with them.” When Phil blinked up at her, she continued. “Two commodores. Her mom’s a co-director of R&D for Weaponry and her dad’s been up commanding Starbase 13. They are…” Dr. Kelly paused, as if searching for a polite euphemism,  _ “disappointed _ that their kid is pregnant.”

“Right, because commodores  _ never _ make mistakes,” Phil muttered on an eyeroll.

“Of course not; that’s how they get to be commodores,” Dr. Kelly snarked back. “She’s in 153. Begone.”

Phil walked into Room 153 to find it dark but for the low ambient lights on the perimeter of the room; it was four in the morning, after all. A thin young woman with mousy brown hair and an almost comically large belly for her frame sat semi-upright in the biobed, just looking down at her belly. No sign of commodores anywhere around.

“Hi,” Phil said kindly. “Jillian, Jill, or Ms. Ginsberg?”

That got a smile out of her. “Jill’s fine.”

“Hi, Jill. I’m Phil Boyce. I’m a med student.” He sat down in the chair next to her bed. “How are you feeling?”

Jill shrugged apathetically. “Okay, I guess.”

“No big-time pain?”

Jill shook her head. “No.”

“Baby’s moving around okay?”

Jill nodded.

“Okay, good.” Phil gave a quick glance to the biobed readout, then leaned in. “What I want to do, then, is talk to you about the medical recommendation for what comes next, so you can have all the information before you say yes or no to it. You can give this consent by yourself, but if you want your parents in here for it, I can have - ” Jill was shaking her head before he finished the sentence. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

_ Informed consent is not some abstract concept. It is the cornerstone of autonomy and everything you hold dear. _

And so Phil patiently went over with his patient all the reasons why induction of labor was the recommended procedure, all the things that might (but probably wouldn’t) go wrong, how very rarely they went wrong, what could be done to prevent and/or fix them, and what her alternatives were. He let her ask questions and gave thoughtful answers. There was something about this process, about being in this dyad of patient and provider, of sharing knowledge, of seeing the glow of understanding come over his patient’s face, that made Phil feel deeply satisfied and strangely  _ whole.  _ His exhaustion, the lingering unsettled feelings from his dream about Chris, his aching wish to be with his family for Christmas, that comm from his mother he hadn’t returned yet...all of it seemed to just melt into the background as he focused, with absolute attention, on the person in front of him, what she needed, what he could do to help her get it.

That was why he became a doctor. Right here.

“Anything else you want to ask, or talk about...or rant about?” Phil asked with a smile after Jill had put her thumbprint on the consent form.

Jill audibly swallowed. “Kinda,” she said.

Phil nodded, keeping his face open.

“So I’m gonna put her up for adoption,” Jill began. “And my mom and dad...they’re cool with that. I mean, they  _ weren’t,  _ in the beginning, but at this point, they know that’s kind of the best choice.” She paused, her voice becoming a little fragile. “But...they’re not gonna let me see her afterwards.”

Phil frowned. “They can’t do that.”

Jill looked up at Phil with a miserable expression. “They made me go through a Starfleet agency.”

_ God.  _ Of course they did. Which meant closed adoptions, across the board. Realistically speaking, most people who would be placing a child for adoption through a Starfleet agency would be Starfleet officers, and, well, that was a (para)military organization for you. Duty over choice. An antiquated, spectacularly stupid protocol, not that Phil was biased or anything.

“You know, I told them,” Jill continued, “that I wasn’t ready to  _ raise  _ her but that I still wanted to be in her life, but they kinda just want me to forget about it. Forget about  _ her.”  _ She shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

Phil nodded. “I hear you.” He took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly, looking out the window at the horizon just barely starting to bruise from blue to purple where it met the curve of the earth. “You know...I might have an idea,” he said slowly. “I can’t make you a promise, but I  _ might _ have an idea.”

~

Phil leaned over the nurses’ station desk, waiting for Marilyn to look up from her charting. When she did, she smiled broadly. She was one of Phil’s favorite people, and vice versa.

“Hey, you,” she greeted. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“It’s a holiday and this is L&D. What do you think I’m doing up at this hour?” Phil answered, grinning.

“Touche,” Marilyn said, punching out of her patient’s chart.

“I need a big favor.”

“For you, anything.”

“I’ve got a young woman who wants an open adoption plan sans Mom and Dad’s involvement. She’s already got a case open with a ‘Fleet agency. I know it’s barely dawn on Christmas Eve, but can you get a hold of anyone with Open Choice at this hour to come talk with her?”

Marilyn grinned. “My dear boy,” she said, tossing her silver ponytail over her shoulder. “I’m a midwife. I can do  _ anything.” _

~

Phil technically got off shift at 0700, but he chose to stay at the hospital. It didn’t seem right to leave Jill yet.

A social worker from Open Choice had come by very early that morning to talk with Jill about placing her baby for adoption through them. They were a public, nonprofit, non-Starfleet organization that specialized in arranging for open adoptions. Starfleet  _ frowned upon _ officers who chose adoption using Open Choice, but also couldn’t really do anything about it, and they were certainly fine with a dependent using them. Best of all, Jill didn’t have to involve her parents in any of Open Choice’s process.

This was fortunate, because the Commodores Ginsburg were just as unpleasant as advertised - Stiff, snippy, and absolutely acid-tongued with their daughter. Phil intensely disliked them from the start, which got several exclamation points after it when Jill asked for some pain relief and her mother had the audacity to  _ scoff _ at her.

“Have they always been like this with you?” Phil had to ask when her parents left the room.

“Only since I got pregnant,” Jill answered in a mumble.

Phil’s heart ached for her.

Jill was ready to push around 1300 hours, right as a storm outside was really starting to kick up. Dr. Kelly - who somehow still looked immaculate? - listened to Phil giving a report on her care and then smiled at him gently.

“Why don’t you deliver her?”

Phil stopped short. “I...what?”

“You’ve bonded with her. She responds well to you. You should deliver her.”

Phil’s adrenal glands went into overdrive. “But...but...I’m only a third-year?...and she’s a primip?...and the daughter of two Commodores?...and…?”

“And you’re the best doctor for her,” Dr. Kelly finished for him.

_ Sometimes the best doctor isn’t even a doctor. _

“Go,” she said, shooing him off. “I’ll be right behind you.”

~

“You’re doing great, Jill,” Phil reassured her between pushes. “Everything’s going fine.”

_ “Everything’s going fine,  _ he says,” Stephanie Ginsburg muttered to no one, just above the threshold where she could be heard. “My teenager’s having a baby and he says  _ everything’s going fine.” _

Phil ignored her. “Take another couple deep breaths, and then we’ll go again.”

Jill grimaced and pushed,  _ hard. “There’s - gotta - be - an - easier - way!” _

“Not having sex, but that was apparently too tough for you,” Carl Ginsburg said to his laboring daughter.

_ Hey, asshole, maybe shut up while your kid’s doing the hardest thing she’s ever done,  _ Phil thought to himself, gently extending the baby’s head. “Hey, Jill, give me your hand,” he said, reaching up for her fingers. He guided them down. “Feel that? That’s her head.”

Jill’s mouth opened into a wondrous little _o_ of amazement. “She’s got so much hair!”

Phil smiled. “She does. A few more pushes and you can meet her. C’mon, Jill. You’ve got this.”

“Should’ve known she’d be this comfortable with a man between her legs,” Carl snipped.

“Oh,  _ shut up,  _ Carl,” Stephanie shot back. “No need for vulgarity, even if it is a valid point.”

_ Nope. That’s it. _

“All right,  _ that’s enough!”  _ Phil said, not quite in a shout but definitely in a raised voice that meant business and shut the commodores up. “Both of you, out of here,  _ now.” _

The Ginsburgs looked at him with their jaws on the floor. “I’m not going anywhere,” Stephanie said, “I’m her  _ mother.” _

“I am a Commodore,  _ Cadet,”  _ Carl spat. “I am your  _ superior  _ and I will  _ not _ be spoken to that way.”

“And I’m a physician, which means in this room, I outrank you,  _ Commodore,” _ Phil countered without a beat. “You’re both actively harming my patient. If you can’t be supportive or at least  _ shut up, _ then get the hell out of my delivery room.” He softened his tone, nodding to Jill. “You’re almost there. Keep going.”

The commodores fell tensely silent, were still for a moment, and then filed out of the room in high dudgeon. Phil barely noticed it. After they left, he felt Dr. Kelly’s hand fall onto his shoulder. He couldn’t tell if it was in praise or admonishment. 

Nor could he turn around and see at that moment, because as soon as her parents were out of the room, Jill pushed  _ spectacularly,  _ and Phil’s arms were suddenly full of slippery, squirmy baby.

“She’s here, Jill,” Phil announced, gently placing the chubby, dark-haired baby on Jill’s stomach. “She’s here. You did it.”

Jill seemed to deflate like a balloon, all the tension in her shoulders and back and face ebbing away in seconds. She placed her hands on the baby girl’s head, stroking gently, just looking at her with a million emotions on her face that surpassed the human capacity for full comprehension. She looked up, for just a moment, and made eye contact with Phil.

“Thank you,” Jill whispered. Phil felt himself glow.

Behind him, Dr. Kelly crouched down and whispered into his ear. “You,” she said, “are a  _ total badass.” _

~

Phil got home a few hours later, dripping wet from the rain, and shook his head like a dog right inside the threshold of his dorm. He smelled... _ oregano? _

“Hey!” Chris greeted from the couch. “Merry and happy whatever. You look exhausted.”

Phil hung up his coat, smiling softly. “Just caught a baby.”

Chris grinned. “Congratulations,” he said sincerely. “No wonder you’re tired.”

Phil looked over; Chris was in an oversized sweater and torn jeans, a beer in one hand and a slice of meat lover’s pizza in the other.  _ Ah. Oregano.  _ His bare feet were up on the coffee table and some shitty ten-year-old rerun was on TV. “Yeah, pretty beat.”

“You hungry?” Chris asked. “I ordered two; the other’s in the kitchen. Veggie, no olives.”

“Bless you,” Phil said gratefully. He paused, thinking. “I’ll be out in a second, okay? Just...one more thing I’ve gotta do.”

Chris nodded in mid-bite, and Phil excused himself to his bedroom to change. He kept thinking of his parents. How intensely they loved their children, how deeply they respected their children, how they guided Phil and his siblings gently but diligently toward confidence and knowledge and understanding. How his parents comforted Sarah when her asshole boyfriend beat her up; how they stood up next to Lily at her wedding even though they thought she was too young to get married; how Dad had called in sick to work to nurse a sixteen-year-old Charlie through his first hangover; how Phil came out as bisexual to his mother to a kiss on the forehead and a promise of unending love from the people he counted on for exactly that.

Too many people had never and  _ would _ never experience that kind of relationship with their parents. Chris hadn’t, with a broken patchwork of a family too young, sick, disdainful, or simply  _ gone _ to make him a priority. Eli hadn’t, with an uptight collection of people who found social convention more important than their child’s welfare. Maybe, just maybe, Phil had knocked just a granule of sense into the Commodores Ginsburg today, something that could encourage them to shape the hell up before they  _ completely _ annihilated their relationship with their daughter. It was a long shot, but he was clinging to it.

_ If you’re lucky enough to have a terrific family, do not miss an opportunity to show your gratitude to them. _

Phil took a deep breath and flipped his comm.

_ “Hello?” _

He sighed happily. “Hi, Mom.”


	7. Chapter 7

Phil sighed contentedly, letting his muscles melt into the bed, savoring the sweet, intoxicating smell of alien incense burning in the room. To his right, Orsythia did likewise.

“You sure do know the female anatomy, Dr. Boyce,” she said mirthfully.

Phil snorted. “I’d be a piss poor excuse for an OB resident if I didn’t,” he replied.

“Touche,” Orsythia giggled. “Speaking of, hate to cut the afterglow short, but I’ve gotta get going. I’ve got a meeting about a trauma rotation on Tellar Prime, and, well, knowing Tellarites, I’ve gotta be primed for a fight.”

Phil smiled and nodded. “Well. Remember to punch from your shoulder.”

She smirked. “You’re welcome to stick around and hang out if you want,” she said, “although my fridge is bare, so I’m not sure why you would.”

“No, it’s okay,” Phil said. “I should go too. I’m on call tonight.”

Orsythia pecked Phil on the lips with a grin and sat up. She put on her bra, then turned to face him, with an expression on her face that clearly said she had something on her mind.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, anything.”

Orsythia smiled a kind of odd-looking smile. “Who’s the blond guy?”

Something in Phil’s brain short-circuited. “What blond guy?” he asked reflexively.

Orsythia rolled her jet-black eyes at him and raised her eyebrows as if to say _really?_

The blood slowly made its way back up to perfuse Phil’s brain. _She’s a Betazoid, idiot. She’s a telepath._

Phil Boyce was not a man prone to embarrassment, but he felt his cheeks go crimson.

“You...you, ah...you...you could _see…_ that?” he stuttered out.

Orsythia visibly restrained a snort. “Well, he popped into your head at a rather critical moment in what we just did,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the bedsheets. “You might even call it the - _heh - climax_ of the event.”

Phil liked Orsythia a lot. They were good friends, professional colleagues, and study partners. But for the tiniest few moments there, he absolutely _hated_ her. The saliva in his mouth evaporated and he fumbled in vain for how to answer this question that was, really, rather simple.

“Can I assume,” Orsythia continued, gentling her voice, “that it’s someone you want but can’t have?”

Phil sighed, exhaling all the endorphins he’d just built up. “You can assume that, yes.”

Orsythia nodded. She was silent for a moment, leaning over to extinguish the incense. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’ve got one of those too.”

They shared a look, followed by that distinct smile that’s trying to pretend it’s okay when it’s not.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said, squeezing her hand.

Orsythia squeezed back. “I’m sorry for you too.”

~

After a long, rather boring shift at the student health center, Phil came home to a mostly dark apartment. A little bit of dying twilight filtered in through the windows, and the light over the stove had been turned on; but in the living room, Chris sat in darkness, leaning back on his pillow and hugging his knees. Phil knew in an instant what this was about.

“Hey,” he called softly.

Chris blinked, then looked up to him with dull eyes. “Hey.” His voice was thick and splintered.

Phil set his medkit down on the desk and walked around the coffee table to sit next to Chris. He made no move to turn on the light. “They tested you today.”

It wasn’t a question, really, but Chris gave the tiniest possible nod to it anyway.

“I gather you passed.”

Chris swallowed harshly, then closed his eyes and nodded. Phil sighed gently, then shifted to face Chris more directly, mirroring his posture. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Chris would talk when he was ready.

_Patience reaps rewards._

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” Chris finally rumbled. “I know that. We all know that. I mean...it’s an unwinnable scenario; it’s _supposed_ to be tough to get through.” He swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. Phil stayed silent. “But...but it’s so _different,_ talking about it hypothetically versus playacting it. I knew it would be, but not this much. And that makes me think about doing it _for real._ About the gravity of it.” He paused again. “What if this hadn’t just been a sim? The order to go into the Neutral Zone came from _me. I_ did that. Which means _I_ sent those officers - _my crew -_  to their deaths. I know it’s just a sim, but in command, it wouldn’t be.”

Phil waited until Chris’ silence went on long enough that he was sure he wasn’t interrupting. “Are you rethinking command?”

Chris shrugged and shook his head, not as an answer but as a reflex. “If I can’t handle the Kobayashi Maru, how could I handle the real thing?”

“You _can_ handle it, though,” Phil interjected. “You passed the test. The whole purpose of the Maru is to see if you can demonstrate grace under _literal_ fire. You did.”

“So Starfleet thinks I can handle it,” Chris said with a tiny roll of his eyes. “That doesn’t necessarily mean I _can.”_

“Yeah, Starfleet also thinks I can handle watching patients die,” Phil replied. “That I can handle sacrificing one patient to save another. That I can handle telling someone there’s nothing I can do to save them, or to save their spouse, or their child. And when I think about that, when I go through those sims, it makes me _sick.”_ Phil paused significantly, watching Chris watch him. “But in the end, Starfleet’s right, Chris. I _can_ handle those decisions. I _can_ handle those no-win scenarios. That doesn’t make them any less terrible, or the drive to avoid them any less worthwhile, but it means that, if they happen, I’m as ready as anybody can be to deal with it. Same with you. You’re sitting here. You made it through that experience. Chris, you’re _so_ much stronger than you think. You _can_ handle it. It just sucks.”

Chris looked thoughtful at that. He nodded, pursing his lips. “I feel like they want us to just put our emotions about it on a shelf like heartless automatons,” he said, raking his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think I can do that. I don’t know if I can be that kind of captain.”

“Good,” Phil said emphatically. “Don’t. Stoicism is not a virtue. Look, if you felt _nothing_ after that scenario - if you just bounced right back from it without a hitch - I wouldn’t want to trust myself to your command. Just like no patient would want to trust me if I could just breeze on with my life after I lost a patient. Doctors without hearts are shitty doctors, and COs without hearts are shitty COs. We need those parts of ourselves, Chris. It just takes some practice of letting one push and the other pull sometimes. I think the whole point of the Academy to learn how to do that so it’s more fluid in the field.”

Chris nodded thoughtfully. He heaved a sigh, then swiveled around, putting his feet on the coffee table and letting his head fall back against the sofa. He was oddly silhouetted by the light from the kitchenette. “God, I feel like I haven’t smiled in about a month,” he muttered, rubbing one of his eyes.

It was true. The run-up to the Kobayashi Maru was a brutal period for every command track cadet, and Chris had been fraying around the edges since the lead-up to the test began. Now that it was over, the adrenaline crash was clearly kicking in. Phil wasn’t a psychiatrist, but he definitely thought that Chris always danced on a razor’s edge that separated normal mood fluctuations from clinical depression; he hoped dearly that something like this wouldn’t be the tipping point.

Phil inexplicably flashed back in his mind to Sarah stroking his hair in his apartment in Boston after Eli broke up with him, telling him stupid, increasingly dirty jokes until she dragged him out of his grief, at least briefly. _Might as well go for broke._

“Why did the mermaid wear seashells?”

Chris stopped rubbing his eye, frowned, and looked over at Phil in comedically slow motion, with a look on his face as if Phil had sprouted another head. “Come again?”

“Why did the mermaid wear seashells?” Phil repeated patiently.

Chris blinked a few times in rapid succession. “No idea, but I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

Phil smirked. “She grew out of her B shells.”

Chris stared at Phil for a moment, mouth agape. Then his lips quivered. He snorted, then broke into a huge, beautiful, _genuine_ smile, laughing low in his throat as he threw his head back. In the light from the stove, Phil saw Chris in profile. His grin was so big that he had little crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

Why Phil fixated on those laugh lines, he never figured out. But when he saw them, he felt like they were a window into what Chris would look like in twenty, forty, eighty years, and _god,_ he wanted to see that so badly. He wanted to keep being a reason that Chris got to show those eye crinkles off. He wanted to touch them. He wanted to kiss them.

He thought he’d been doing an admirable job of calling his feelings for his best friend _a simple crush on a straight boy_ for the past three years, willing it to go away, trying to work or study or flirt or fuck his way out of Chris’ indelible presence in his head and his heart. In that moment, though - seeing him smile, hearing him laugh at Phil’s _incredibly_ stupid joke, seeing those _damned eye crinkles -_ Phil came to the abrupt, rude realization that all that effort had been for naught.

_The universe doesn’t grab you by the scruff of your neck and demand your attention about simple crushes,_ Phil thought to himself.

_Lying to others is bad. Lying to yourself is worse._

Phil smiled at Chris fondly, swallowing back his heart, and felt something at once terrifying and comforting pumping through his veins, out of that new chamber of his heart he swore he felt bloom into being when he first laid eyes on his best friend three years ago, spreading through his entire body.

_You’re in love with Christopher Pike, and come what may, you will be until you draw your last breath._

~

In the summer, Chris got the opportunity to go into the black for a milk run on the Hypatia. First trips into space always merited great celebration, so Chris and Phil celebrated greatly. Chris denied heartily having been even a little bit hungover when he boarded the shuttle for Spacedock the following morning.

Speaking of blatant lies, Chris’ going into space had absolutely _nothing_ to do with why Phil suddenly took on a bunch of extra shifts. Nope. Not a damn thing.

(His apartment intended for only one person sure was _cavernous_ with only one person in it.)

In the first five-and-a-half of the six full weeks that Chris was in space, Phil delivered twenty-two babies, did four D&Cs, treated ten cases of Denobulan pseudosyphilitic fever, repaired one badly lacerated liver, and removed four appendices, three gallbladders, two uteri, and one tiny doll shoe from a toddler’s nose. Not to mention the routine prenatals, contraceptive implant replacements, treat-and-release emergency room cases, and miscellaneous paperwork. On some deep level, Phil recognized his current workload as excessive; but he also couldn’t find it in him to care. He needed to _do_ something. _At least I’m not getting myself arrested this time._

His attending, on the other hand, saw it as just cause to smack him upside the head.

_“Ow,”_ Phil said in a voice weaker than he’d intended.

“Go home,” Dr. Aliyev said bluntly.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m supposed to assist with an LSO at 1300.”

_“Go. Home,”_ she repeated firmly. “Or go check yourself in on the sixth floor; maybe Plastics can do something about the bags under your eyes.”

Phil glared at her bloodlessly, then removed his white coat and did as he was told.

He walked home at a stroll, trying to occupy his brain with all things boring and nonsensical until he hit his front door. Parsley. _Not work._ Dung beetles. _Not sleep._ Sofa cushions. _Not Chris._

_Sofa cushions…_

Phil paused, cocking his head slightly in the window of a furniture store he was passing. In the window was a dusky green, overstuffed futon.

_Hmm. Sofa cushions._

Phil didn’t actively notice his feet carrying him into the store, nor the tinkling, Bajoran-inspired chimes that rang when he stepped inside, but he somehow found himself looking at the placard beside the green futon. It looked very comfortable for sleeping, much more so than the torture implement to which Chris had been cheerfully subjecting himself for years.

“Can I help you?”

Phil turned toward the voice. “I was just looking at the futon,” he said dumbly.

“It’s on sale this week,” the salesperson said. “Five-fifty marked down from six, and free delivery in seven days.”

_You’re really doing this?_ a voice in Phil’s head asked.

“How much extra to get it by Friday?”

Friday morning, the new futon got delivered, and Friday afternoon, Phil went to pick Chris up from the shuttleport. With the sheer volume of exhaustion between the two of them, Phil mused that they probably looked less like a pair of upstanding cadets and more like a pair of junkies dressed up as ‘Fleet officers for Halloween. Chris looked completely wiped, but he had this genuine, soft _glow_ in him, too, like he’d found nirvana and it was up in the black surrounded by stars. It made Phil feel warm.

When Phil nonchalantly opened the door to their dorm, Chris stopped in his tracks, cocking his head like a confused puppy at the sight in front of him. “Bzuwhaa?” he said eloquently, pointing to the futon.

Phil smiled, feeling his cheeks flush, and shrugged. “I just don’t want to be treating your back problems for the next forty years,” he said lightly. “Look, you haven’t been just _crashing on my couch_ for a long damn time, okay? We’re roommates. I have a bed. You deserve a bed. _There.”_ Phil pointed to the futon. “There’s your bed.”

Chris’ face blossomed into the _softest_ smile. “You bought me a bed?” he asked with childlike wonder.

_Oh, Chrissy._ “I bought you a _futon,”_ Phil said sarcastically. “To be used as a bed,” he conceded.

Chris’ happy face looked dangerously close to overflowing with emotion, and it belatedly occurred to Phil that, with Chris’ upbringing, this might well be one of the nicest gifts he’d ever received. _And I gave it to him._ It made his heart clench. Chris dropped his duffel, crossed the room to Phil in three long strides, and hugged him, hard.

“Thanks, buddy.” Chris’ voice was muffled by Phil’s shoulder, but Phil could’ve sworn he heard a heartbeat in it.

Phil closed his eyes, breathed, and patted Chris’ back. “It’s what I’m here for.”


	8. Chapter 8

Phil was standing in the kitchenette, only about twenty percent awake and guzzling coffee, when Chris made his way out of the bathroom with a gait like a newborn giraffe acclimating to its center of gravity. Phil looked up, took one look at him, and gaped.

“Are you out of your fucking _mind?”_

Chris appeared to be more sweat than person at that moment. His uniform shirt was pasted to his skin and his hair was curling so much from the sweating of his scalp that it was in almost comical ringlets. The bags under his eyes were bigger than the duffel he’d come to the Academy toting, his skin clammy and frighteningly pale, making his freckles stand out against the ghostly backdrop.

“Mor - ” Chris couldn’t even get the word out before he started coughing up a lung. “Morning.”

Phil reached out and felt Chris’ fiery forehead with the back of his hand. _Technology is extraordinary and should be used with vigor, but it should never be a substitute for your own hands and mind._ “Good god, did you die in the night? Is this zombie visitation how I find out?”

“‘s just a cold,” Chris husked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The glass of the carafe rattled against the ceramic of the mug as his hand trembled violently.

“You cannot _possibly_ be thinking of leaving the house today.”

Chris shivered at nothing. “I gotta,” he said. “I’m meeting with my advisor this morning and then I scored an interview with the chef from the Kelvin for this afternoon. Wanna get as many survivors as possible before I have to - ” He started hacking again.

“Okay, I don’t care if you’ve scored an interview with the ghost of George Kirk himself, Chris; you are _stupidly_ sick and you need to be in bed.”

Chris took his coffee to the little two-person table, sat, and laid his head against the battered aluminum. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled before dissolving into coughs again.

Phil rolled his eyes, set his coffee down, and reached for his medkit. “You mind if I scan you?”

Chris did not lift his head. “If I say no, will it really stop you?”

“Yes, it will.” _Informed consent is not some abstract concept. It is the cornerstone of autonomy and everything you hold dear._ “But it also means my lecture gets three times longer.”

A pause. “Fine. Scan away.”

_Low BP, normal heart rate, temp - yeesh, 39.5? - WBCs up, viral profile pending...great, just great._

“Isn’t there some way to silence that damn thing?” Chris bemoaned, glaring at the tricorder. _Phonophobia._

“Two hundred years ago, this would’ve required poking you with a needle and sticking a thermometer up your ass,” Phil snarked back. “You’re getting off easy.”

“Speaking of sticking things in asses, how was your date with what’s-his-name?"

“You’re funnier when you’re febrile.” Phil set the tricorder to the side, palpating Chris’ lymph nodes. “I know your head hurts. What about your throat? Your ears? Your stomach?”

“All of the above.”

“Throwing up?”

“For accuracy and distance.”

“Diarrhea?”

“Oh good, we’ve reached that point in our friendship where we can exchange poop stories.”

“You live with a doctor. Comes with the territory. Diarrhea?”

“Affirm.”

“Eat anything weird?”

“Do those broccoli-spinach-quinoa patties you made for lunch last week qualify?”

“They do not, smartass. Sleep with anybody you’ve had second thoughts about?”

“Well, yeah, all of them, but not in relation to this.”

“When did you get your flu shot?”

Silence.

“Christopher?”

“I was planning to go next Tuesday,” Chris managed.

_“Christopher Vincent,”_ Phil sighed. “Well, that’s one less appointment you need to keep on Tuesday. You’ve got O’Gan type influenza. Mazel tov.”

Chris’ miserable expression didn’t flinch as he made finger guns in the air.

“It’s Earth-origin but it’s gnarly. You’re not gonna die, but you’re probably gonna be sick enough to wish you would. I’m putting you on leave for the next week, and I’m staying home with you today, too. I was gonna catch up on some errands since I’m off, but they can wait.”

“Phil, I’m a big boy; I don’t need a _babysitter;_ I’ll be...” Chris trailed off, turned green, and beelined to the bathroom. Phil rolled his eyes affectionately, tossed open his communicator, and called in a sick note for Chris.

“Okay,” Chris husked into the porcelain when he felt Phil’s hand on his back, “maybe I _do_ need a babysitter.”

Phil pressed a cool towel onto Chris’ neck. “C’mon, Sickie. Bed.”

The rest of Phil’s day passed in a haze of fetching glasses of water and juice, pressing hypos into Chris’ neck - antiviral, antipyretic, antiemetic - and cleaning up all manner of his body’s varied effluvium. Chris spent most of the day sleeping, occasionally waking to dash to the bathroom, to sip water, or to shiver himself into fits on the futon. Finally, _finally,_ he settled in the late afternoon, sleeping deep and hard without stirring. Phil took the opportunity to settle onto the pulled-out futon next to him, propping himself upright and opening up a novel on his PADD.

He was asleep before he finished the chapter.

When he stirred a few hours later, his PADD had gone dark, and the sun had long since set outside. Chris was awake, facing him; he still looked sweaty and disoriented, pasty and clammy with bloodshot eyes and a day’s growth of stubble and what looked like a spot of vomit on his sweatshirt.

_How the actual hell is he still beautiful, even in this condition?_

“Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty,” Phil greeted. “How you feeling?”

Chris moaned pitifully and crawled closer, snuggling into Phil’s side. “‘m _sick,_ Phil.”

Phil smiled, putting an arm around Chris’ overheated frame and squeezing him gently. “I know. You’ll feel better soon. I promise.”

Chris moaned again. “You’re a good doctor,” he mumbled dazedly. “Really good. Really doctor.”

Phil pursed his lips to keep from laughing. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for staying with me today,” Chris said through the marbles in his mouth and the cotton in his head. “Love you, Philly Boycey. Really love. Really you.”

It was hardly the romantic declaration of love of his fantasies, but it made Phil’s heart do a backflip nonetheless.

_Do not miss a chance to speak truth._

“Love you too, you sweet disaster.”

~

“All right,” Sarah called over the din of the dinner table, “I’m proposing a toast, so everybody, can it.”

Mom smiled and shook her head, staring into her iced tea. _“Sarah...”_

“To my baby brother, Philip John,” Sarah said. “Now a full-fledged grown-up doctor. Who _could,_ if he wasn’t such a _massive_ nerd, now get a good night’s sleep for the first time in recent memory; but who has instead chosen to do a fellowship, for reasons I’m sure are very good but can’t figure out to save my life.”

Phil grinned and rolled his eyes affectionately.

Sarah smirked at him briefly before she turned sincere. “Phil’s great at so many things - ”

“Most of which involve protesting something,” Lily interjected seamlessly.

“Amen,” Mom and Chris said in unison, Phil’s official One Phone Call recipients sharing a smirk.

_“ - but,”_ Sarah continued pointedly, “I think the thing he’s best at is just _caring_ about people. He doesn’t know how to _not_ care, how to _not_ support, how to _not_ respect and defend and advocate for someone who needs it. He loves everyone who deserves it, and many people who don’t, and it makes him a good healer and a great person and a _phenomenal_ brother.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You’re a wonderful doctor, Phil. You were even before you _were_ a doctor. And your patients are so damn lucky.”

Phil squeezed her hand back, mouthing _thank you._

Sarah lifted her water glass aloft. “To my nerdy little brother.”

Phil flushed happily as his family around him toasted to his graduation from residency. He and Chris had flown to Maine for a celebration at Caroline Cove, the vacation home Phil’s parents had bought once they no longer had four hungry moochers underfoot to bleed their incomes dry. It was a lovely place in Cape Elizabeth, footsteps away from the beach, with a dock in the backyard that fed into a narrow inlet of the Bay. It had quickly become one of Phil’s favorite places in the world.

On the floor behind him, an assortment of nieces and nephews were playing some game with what sounded like increasingly elaborate rules, with Lily and Tara quasi-supervising the proceedings. Mom and Charlie were talking about repairs that needed to be done to the house, and Dad was talking to Chris, who was quivering with giggles. Sarah had picked up her younger daughter and was rocking her in her lap, singing her a Québécois lullaby Dad had sung to them as kids.

Phil sipped his tea and tried not to get overcome with how dearly he was going to _miss_ all of these people when he went off-planet in three short weeks.

After lunch, as people scattered throughout the property, Phil found himself on the dock, rubbing the belly of Flame, the successor to his beloved departed Phoenix. He had rolled his pant legs up to his knees and was dangling his feet into the chilly waters, a nice counterpoint to the sweltering August air. Not far from him, Dad, Lily, and a couple of the kids were in a boat, sailing lazily.

“There you are.” Phil and Flame turned; there stood Chris, smiling and barefoot, with two beers in his hand. He handed one to Phil, set the other down on the dock, scratched Flame behind the ears, and started rolling up the legs of his jeans. “Wondered where you’d gone.”

“Ditto. I was worried for a second that Audrey might’ve cornered you in some darkened room.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “I think she’s outgrown that particular crush. No, I was helping your mom with the dishes. She repaid me by teaching me dirty words in French.”

“I am profoundly unsurprised by this.”

_“Casse-toi.”_

Phil snorted inelegantly. “Careful, desert boy; the water’s freezing.”

“Deserts _do_ get cold, you know,” Chris said. “I was born on coldest day in more than a hundred - holy _fuck,”_ he gasped as his foot touched the water.

Phil laughed. “Told you so.”

“What in the...how can you…”

“Just let them dangle,” Phil said simply. “Move your blood. You’ll get used to it, I promise.”

Chris followed Phil’s advice, white-knuckling the edge of the dock as soon as he was immersed to his knees. “I’m not gonna get frostbite, am I?”

_“No,”_ Phil said, rolling his eyes slightly. “This water’s about twenty degrees. You’re good.”

Chris took a deep breath, then started to kick his legs slightly, just like Phil was doing, to get his circulation going. It settled him. For a moment, they sat and drank in silence, looking out over the bay.

“You’re nervous,” Chris said.

Phil turned toward Chris. Chris was looking at him intently. “A little,” he admitted.

Chris’ brow furrowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous before.”

_“You_ were nervous, the first time you went into space.”

“Yeah,” Chris affirmed, “but that’s _me._ That’s kind of my default. I dunno; I guess I just suspected you might be immune to anxiety.”

“It’s not that I’m not excited about it,” Phil said. “I am, a lot. Hardly anybody gets this fellowship; I’m gonna have knowledge and experience that very few doctors have, even in Starfleet. But...it’s a lot. I freaked out when I moved from Maine to Boston; now I’m going Earth to Andoria, Earth to Vulcan, maybe Earth to Bajor...just a _tiny_ bit farther.”

“Right,” Chris said, nodding, “but that’s why we joined up in the first place, right? Strange new worlds, new life and civilizations, boldly going, et cetera?”

“Yeah,” Phil said pensively. “It’s just hard, thinking about being so far from everyone I love.”

Chris smiled and turned back to the water. “If you wanted _easy,_ you went into the wrong line of work,” he said, kicking his legs a little more vigorously. “You didn’t become a doctor because you wanted the path of least resistance. You became a doctor because you couldn’t imagine dedicating your life to anything else. I know you well enough to say that. The people you admire don’t gain your admiration because shit worked out for them a hundred percent of the way, a hundred percent of the time. You admire people whose lives go sideways sometimes, the people who got the short end of the stick and have to figure shit out. It’s why you’re in ob/gyn. It’s why you like _me,_ for god’s sake. It’s gonna be hard, yeah, but you _like_ hard, Phil. You _thrive_ on hard. You’re _drawn_ to hard. It makes you better - a better doctor and a better person - and _that’s_ what’s important to you, really, being better today than you were yesterday.” He looked back at Phil; something in the depths of his eyes expanded, and Phil felt his apprehension starting to melt away. “So go do that. Go do better. Go _be_ better.”

Phil pursed his lips, trying to stem the wellspring of emotion that was fighting its way to the surface, and slung an arm around Chris, his shoulder the perfect fit for Phil’s palm. “You’re starting to sound like me,” he said.

Chris settled his head on Phil’s shoulder. “I’ll take that as the compliment it is.”

Phil looked down at how Chris’ golden hair played with the light from the sunset falling on it. _This is so, so close to perfect,_ he thought. _And if I have this, even if nothing more, then I have enough._

~

Three weeks later, when he boarded the shuttle that would take him up out of the atmosphere and to a cold, distant planet, he opened the little care package his family had sent to him the day before and pieced through its contents. A little bag of salted pea pod crisps. Some lip balm and lotion. A chip for his PADD with an Andorian-to-Standard dictionary. Little drawings from his nieces and nephews. A tiny handcuff keychain that was _so clearly_ a hint from his mother to please not get arrested in a place where neither she nor Chris could bail him out. Love and pride and wishes for welfare _poured_ out of the box, and it made Phil ache.

There was something else, too. A glossy piece of paper, sandwiched against the edge of the box. Phil frowned and tugged it out.

It was a photograph - a real, old-school color photograph, like those that went out of vogue more than a century ago - of Phil and Chris on the dock at Caroline Cove, frosty longnecks in their hands, Chris with his head on Phil’s shoulder and Phil with his arm around Chris. Chris was giving that distinctly _Chris_ smirk to the camera, as if to say _I see you;_ Phil had his chin on the top of Chris’ head, his eyes closed, soaking up the moment. The sun was shining down on them, bathing them in a pool of light against the dark of the water.

Phil tried not to gasp. He flipped the photo over; on the back, Dad had simply scrawled _P &C ‘35. _

_Dad took this,_ Phil realized. _Dad took this picture when I wasn’t paying attention, and then he gave it to me, because he knows._

Pursing his lips and taking a deep breath, he looked at the picture again, then placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket, right up against his heart, where he knew it would be safe. He carefully put his care package back together, stuffed his bag back under his seat, and watched the sky outside go from blue to black as they rose higher and higher.

_Count your blessings. They are more numerous than you realize._


	9. Chapter 9

Andoria was... _ unpleasant.  _ The people were friendly enough, Phil supposed, for a temperamental species not known for their great sympathy; and the research he was participating in was undoubtedly fascinating - what better place to flex one’s reproductive endocrinology muscles than on a planet experiencing a critical drop in fertility? - but that was where Phil’s attempts at positivity came to an end. Andoria was very cold, very dark, and very harsh, enough to necessitate living underground, and whatever was the  _ point _ of going into  _ space _ if it meant you couldn’t see the sky?

_ You are absurdly privileged. When the desire to complain takes hold of you, remember how many people are not. _

Phil rarely saw patients on this rotation, instead holing up in a lab with a tiny space heater and massive sheaves of data. Every once in a great while, he’d head to the emergency room, and he’d observed in the OR very rarely. Looking in on the labor and delivery floor was, regrettably, pointless - hence Phil’s research. Andorian scientists had been trying to determine solutions to the fertility crisis for more than a hundred years, and Phil certainly held no illusions about his own (in)ability to solve the crisis in his eight week rotation; but he could attempt to help, and if nothing else, could educate himself.

The obvious solution, from the comparatively ignorant perspective of a human, would’ve been to eliminate the need for four participants in the Andorian mating process by integrating the functions of one or more of those four people - knitting together the chromosomal counterparts of two with the chromosomal and gestational functions of the other two, for example. Obvious, sure, but genetically and physiologically impractical, not to mention the very  _ definition _ of cultural insensitivity. Making Andorians more like humans sounded more like forced assimilation and the destruction of bodies and identities unique to this species than like a solution to a life-and-death problem.

_ Recognizing and stowing your intrinsic biases is a critical first step in being able to help another person. _

“Dr. Boyce,” a voice said behind Phil as he was pouring over chromosomal data. He turned; it was Dr. th’Zharleen, the Andorian doctor who had supervised most of Phil’s interactions with patients. “I would appreciate your assistance in the operating theatre.”

“Oh!” Phil said, shutting off his PADD. “My pleasure. What’s the case?”

Dr. th’Zharleen jerked his head toward the hall. “Walk and talk.”

Phil nodded, tripping over his feet a little as he tried to keep up with the much taller Andorian.  _ It’s like following an older, antennaed, blue version of Charlie. _

“The patient is a nineteen-year-old  _ shen _ who has been in our care for several days,” Dr. th’Zharleen explained. “She was admitted with severe fatigue, anorexia, fever to forty-seven degrees, joint pain, and antennae ptosis. She has no notable medical or surgical history and her blood chemistries are unremarkable except for mild cobalt-deficiency anemia and a modest decrease of her vitaxoralin levels.”

“Other than the vitaxoralin, that sounds almost like an autoimmune condition,” Phil opined.

“It would, to a human,” Dr. th’Zharleen said in a voice that was probably not intended to cause offense. “But autoimmune disease is profoundly rare in Andorians.”

“Especially in the young,” Phil added, nodding. “My understanding is that, when autoimmune conditions  _ are _ present, they usually aren’t diagnosed until autopsy, correct?”

“Correct. Making that diagnosis in this patient quite unlikely.” Dr. th’Zharleen turned to Phil, his antennae bobbing gently in his direction. “Forgive me; I’ve never been to Earth and my experience with humans is quite limited. I was told that your primary specialty deals with the reproductive processes of the gestating population of your species, is that not so?”

“That’s right,” Phil affirmed, “with secondary specialties in emergency medicine and general surgery.”

Dr. th’Zharleen nodded. “It seems this case would pique all three of your areas of interest.” He nodded to the scrub room over Phil’s shoulder. “Scrub in. Anesthesia is in with her now.”

The patient was tall and thin, with wispy white hair and only the faintest blue hue to her skin, which made sense with her decreased cobalt levels. Phil mostly observed during her surgery, occasionally stepping in when Dr. th’Zharleen required a second pair of hands. It was a great practicum in Andorian anatomy, but a frustrating clinical experience. Absolutely  _ nothing _ looked abnormal.  _ Nothing _ that could produce the bizarre constellation of signs and symptoms that had landed her in this operating room.

“Intestines appear healthy,” Dr. th’Zharleen announced. “No indication of infectious processes in the alimentary canal. Kidneys are slightly small for a  _ shen _ of this age, but unlikely to be consequential in this differential. Bladder is normal in size, color, and texture, and empty to palpation.”

A glint in the space right in front of her bladder caught Phil’s eye.  _ That’s...that’s not supposed to be there. _

“Gonadal capsules appear smooth and intact, appropriate to the patient’s - ”

“Dr. th’Zharleen,” Phil interrupted lowly, “would you please elevate the pubic symphysis one more time?”

Behind his mask, Dr. th’Zharleen visibly suppressed a sigh of annoyance, then elevated the pubis again.

_ There.  _ The glint. No, wait... _ two glints. What? _

Phil stooped down and looked carefully. They were the palest lavender color, their shiny smooth capsules iridescent under the surgical lights...beautiful, in their way, but  _ definitely _ not supposed to be there.

“I’ve identified two light purple ovoid masses in the retropubic space, approximately two centimeters by one centimeter, equidistant from the sagittal midline approximately ten centimeters apart.” Phil identified a gossamer-thin tubule on one of them, virtually impossible to see unless you were looking for it, and followed it with his eyes to see where it ended. “A transparent tubule extends from at least one such mass...it appears to terminate in her oviparous canal.” He looked up. “Dr. th’Zharleen, can you confirm?”

Dr. th’Zharleen bent and looked, his eyes going flinty behind his mask as he saw exactly what Phil saw. “I can confirm,” he said in a soft voice before swearing in Andorian.

Phil stared at him. “What the hell  _ are  _ those?” 

Dr. th’Zharleen ignored him, directing his nursing staff. “Call to the pharmacy. I need two units of cobalt and as much vitaxoralin for intraosseous infusion as they have. And I’m not kidding -  _ all the stock they have.  _ Prepare for rapid infusion. Dr. Boyce, hand me the calipers on that tray. All staff, prepare for heavy bleeding.”

“Wait, wait - what are we  _ doing?”  _ Phil couldn’t help but ask. “What the hell is this?”

“I’ll play teacher after we save this patient’s life,” Dr. th’Zharleen snapped. “Grab that clamp and get ready.”

Phil did as he was told. Dr. th’Zharleen flicked his wrist this way and that, and dusky blue blood filled the patient’s abdominal cavity. Phil immediately clamped down to stem the hemorrhage.

“Clamp!  _ Clamp!”  _ Dr. th’Zharleen shouted unnecessarily. With delicate forceps, he lifted one of the two tentacled ovals out of her abdomen, then repeated the process on the other side. Beside Phil, a nurse was placing an intraosseous line into the marrow cavity of the patient’s lower leg and hanging a bag of electric blue fluid wide open.

“Her pressure’s fluctuating,” Dr. th’Zharleen said, looking up to the biobed readout. “More fluid!  _ Go!” _

Phil kept his eyes on the patient’s abdomen, trying to ensure that those clamps stayed clamped, that there were no lingering bleeders that were making things that much worse. “Dr. th’Zharleen,” he chanced, “should I get to repairing?”

“Huh?” the doctor said, his eyes not moving from the biobed screen.

“Her vessels,” Phil said. “Should I repair them now?”

Dr. th’Zharleen looked to Phil distractedly and nodded. “Yes, yes, seal the vessels.”

Phil did so, quickly but methodically, passively hearing the tension in the room tick downward along with the patient’s heart rate. When he was finished with her vessels, Dr. th’Zharleen closed her abdomen and directed her to the “critical management area” - the Andorian equivalent of an ICU, Phil inferred. Finally, in the scrub room, Phil asked it again.

“What the hell just happened?”

Dr. th’Zharleen sighed heavily, turning on the tap. “She underwent  _ chelestyakeh.” _

The word meant nothing to Phil. “What is that?”

“Those masses were not masses,” Dr. th’Zharleen explained. “They were ovaries.”

_ What?  _ “What?”

“Risan ovaries,” he explained further. “You are familiar with the sexual proclivities of Risans, no doubt. And that their... _ prolific _ nature is not limited to the sexual, but encompasses the reproductive, too. Well, recall your xenogenetics. Andorian plus Risan.”

Phil shook his head. “Andorian reproductive processes are unique to your species; a hybrid with a Risan would be physiologically impossible.”

Dr. th’Zharleen was unimpressed. “I didn’t ask about physiology; I asked about genetics. Use your imagination.”

Phil did. “I’ve read studies about attempts at Andorian-Human hybridization,” he said slowly. “The chromosomal anomalies were incompatible with life and no pregnancy made it to term, but all the studied fetuses appeared to have purely Andorian phenotypes.” He paused. “Andorian base pair sequences are extraordinarily dense compared to most other known sentient life. I would theorize that Andorian genes would overwhelm the DNA of most other species.”

“Exactly. Meaning that,  _ theoretically,  _ an Andorian-Risan hybrid would only be detectable as such on a deep genetic scan. Much like those fetuses, such a hybrid would be phenotypically indistinguishable from a full-blooded Andorian and be able to pass as such in our society, even over several dozen generations.”

Phil could almost hear the  _ click _ as the pieces fell into place. “A fertility booster,” he whispered. “She’s a  _ shen.  _ She has to have adequate genetic material to contribute to the reproductive process. She thought those ovaries could do it.”

“And no one would be the wiser,” Dr. th’Zharleen finished. “Of course, the major flaw in the plan is that Risans and Andorians have vastly dissimilar blood chemistries. You were right; Andorian-Risan hybrids  _ are _ essentially impossible, and the same chromosomal anomalies that manifested in those miscarried fetuses you spoke of would be nearly inevitable in such hybridization. Even in the transplantation of vital organs, it would take years of immune modulation and cobalt-sparing therapy for an Andorian to live with a Risan heart or liver or kidney; not even gene therapy could foster normal antenatal development arising from alien gonads. Only in a case of extraordinary genetic mutation would such a fetus be able to come to term.” He dried his hands, shaking his head. “It’s a mercy she was through puberty when she did it. Most are not. What little vitaxoralin she has has kept her alive until now.”

“It wasn’t autoimmune. It was a  _ transplant rejection.”  _ Phil shook his head. “I’m still confused. What physician would have the ethics to perform this transplant? You just said it’s a virtually pointless procedure. It seems obvious to me that risk  _ dramatically _ outweighs benefit in this - what did you call it?”

_ “Chelestyakeh,”  _ Dr. th’Zharleen repeated. “Which, you might realize, is not an Andorian word. It’s Risan. The procedure’s actually illegal on Andoria - our government, fortunately, recognizes its futility - but like most things in the known galaxy, it’s perfectly legal on Risa. It’s supposed to be performed under strict medical supervision, but most  _ shens _ of reproductive age don’t have that kind of credit to their name, so they rely on the black market.”

Phil’s stomach gave an unholy lurch. “What’s going to happen to her?”

Dr. th’Zharleen scratched the base of one antenna. “Vitaxoralin infusions every day until her natural gonadal capsules take back over, assuming they do. Cobalt infusion, too, until her marrow resumes proper function. Pain management. She’ll live. She probably won’t reproduce, but she’ll live.”

Phil finished sanitizing his hands, then folded his arms and paced. “I don’t get this,” he said softly. “She...she could’ve  _ died.  _ For  _ this,  _ of all things. For a  _ maybe.” _

Dr. th’Zharleen raised an eyebrow. “Again, I am unfamiliar with most of human culture, but I believe taking on even grave risks for a  _ maybe _ is not a uniquely Andorian phenomenon.”

He had a point. “Still,” Phil muttered. “Everything about this just seems…”  _ Vile. Cruel. A profound violation of medical ethics.  _ “...wrong.”

Dr. th’Zharleen was quiet for a long moment. When he broke his silence, his tone was almost conversational. “Do you have children, Dr. Boyce?”

Phil looked up; Dr. th’Zharleen’s head was cocked to the side in curiosity, but he was not smiling. “No.”

“Siblings?”

“Yes,” Phil affirmed. “A brother and two sisters.”

“Are you close with them?”

“Very.”

Dr. th’Zharleen nodded. “I have no siblings,” he said. “Nor did any of my parents. Nor any of  _ their _ parents. I once asked my parents how far back in the generations I would have to look before I found an aunt or an uncle. None of them could remember.” Dr. th’Zharleen’s eyes grew cold with fury. “None of  _ us _ can remember. We are Andorian. Family is  _ everything.  _ Clan is  _ everything.  _ You cannot  _ imagine _ the horror, the pure  _ horror,  _ of watching as your population falls - a trickle at first, and then a raging waterfall that everyone,  _ even you,  _ a scientist, a  _ doctor,  _ are powerless to stop. You cannot  _ imagine _ hearing names as they slip from our tongues for good because no one remains to carry them. You cannot  _ imagine _ these horrors, Dr. Boyce; you cannot  _ imagine _ this desperation. So if you lack the capacity to put yourself in the position of my people, I demand that you at least have the  _ grace _ to not impose your  _ human _ norms on our fundamental biological drive to procreate.”

Phil swallowed. He felt a flush of shame creep up his neck and suffocate his skin. He gave a tiny nod to Dr. th’Zharleen, an acknowledgement of his entirely valid chastisement until he could get his tongue to work properly. By the time  _ I’m sorry _ had managed to forge itself in his vocal chords, the doctor had stormed past Phil and out of the scrub room.

Phil stayed there for a long time, staring at his shoes and listening to his breathing. Disappointment in himself, concern for his patient, rage at whatever black market hack had operated on her, and extreme embarrassment at his words to Dr. th’Zharleen warred for control in his mind.

_ “You like hard, Phil….It makes you better - a better doctor and a better person - and that’s what’s important to you, really, being better today than you were yesterday.” _

He reached into his scrub pocket and pulled out the photo of him and Chris on the dock, missing his best friend so fiercely it physically _ hurt,  _ deep in his chest.

What had just happened was among the  _ hard _ Chris had spoken of, but it was decidedly not emblematic of personal improvement of today over yesterday. He knew psychology; he knew that shame was about the person and guilt about the behavior, that shame was destructive and pointless while guilt could be constructive. So Phil sat there, in the chilly relative darkness, and tried to redirect his thoughts from shame to guilt.

It didn’t really work.

_ Sometimes you just need a second to feel shitty about yourself, because then life can continue on. _

Phil exhaled slowly and put his head between his legs.

~

The young  _ shen _ was stable, but still unconscious when Phil’s rotation on Andoria unceremoniously ended. Serendipity had it that the USS Sagan was breezing by on her way back to Earth, so Phil hitched a ride aboard instead of booking a shuttle. It was cheaper for Starfleet, had better accommodations than any shuttle would have, and had one recently-christened Lieutenant Commander Christopher V. Pike at the helm, so really, it wasn’t much of a contest.

“Oh my  _ god,  _ it’s so good to see you,” Chris exclaimed, hugging Phil as soon as he stepped off the transporter pad. Phil couldn’t help but sort of melt; he felt warm,  _ really warm, _ for the first time in more than two months, and had that damn citrus shampoo tickling his nose again, and after everything that Andoria had been, it felt like the clouds had broken and the light was streaming back in. “Phil?” Chris said gently, patting his back. “Hey. You okay?”

Phil just nodded. “Just good to be home,” he murmured.

Chris laughed, parting from Phil and shouldering one of his bags. “Well, home-adjacent, at least. C’mon.”

He looked  _ good.  _ Not just in the way Phil  _ always _ thought Chris looked good, either, but...what  _ was _ that? He was definitely smiling more. Was there more confidence? Did he look more relaxed? Was it just the joy of being up in space? Was it seeing Phil again? Phil kept looking at Chris, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.  _ Something _ had changed, though.

Phil waited until they were behind closed doors before he asked. “What’s with you?”

Chris turned, grinning. “Sorry?”

“You’re awfully smiley,” Phil said. “Not that I’m complaining about you being happy, but...this is unusual.”

Chris turned from the replicator, handing Phil a spicy chickpea sandwich, one of the only vegetarian dishes Phil had actually converted him to. “Can’t I just be happy to see my best friend for the first time in two months?”

Phil narrowed his eyes critically as his mind put the pieces together.  _ Oh. Oh, that’s it.  _ “What’s her name?”

Chris’ cheeks pinked. “How’d you guess?”

“Having known you for ten years was a real good start,” Phil answered dryly. “What’s her name?”

Chris sat next to him on the sofa with his own chickpea sandwich. “Siobhan,” he answered, a little dreamily. “Siobhan McCullough. Her brother is our ops officer. She was at that banquet they had after we found the quasar cluster.”

“Siobhan McCullough,” Phil repeated. “Gee. I wonder if she’s Irish.”

“You think,  _ Doctor?”  _ Chris snarked, pulling out his PADD. “That’s her.”

The background on Chris’ PADD was a stunning young woman - fair-skinned, rosy-cheeked, modestly curvy, with jet black hair and blue eyes. “She’s gorgeous,” Phil said sincerely.

“Yeah, she is,” Chris said fondly, taking his PADD back. “And she’s sweet and smart and funny... _ god,  _ Phil.”

Phil took a bite of his sandwich without tasting it. “She looks young. How old is she?”

“Twenty.”

“Cradle-robber.”

“Hey!” Chris shot back without malice. “I’m only twenty-eight! It’d be robbing the cradle if it was  _ you,  _ old man.”

_ “Casse-toi.” _

Chris smirked, then softened, running his finger down Siobhan’s face on the PADD. “I  _ really _ like her, Phil.”

Phil smiled back and swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I’m happy for you, Chrissy.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dr. April looked up at Phil over her PADD, raising one eyebrow skeptically. “Bajor?”

Phil nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You want to do a rotation...on Bajor?”

“I do. Very much.”

Dr. April set the PADD down, tilted her head back, and let out a quiet sigh. “Why Bajor?”

Phil smiled. “I’m an ob/gyn. It’s Bajor. Why  _ wouldn’t _ I want a rotation there?”

“Yeah, I follow,” Dr. April said, “but you’re also a  _ doctor,  _ trained in  _ obstetrics,  _ under the  _ medical model.  _ And you’re also a  _ man,  _ which makes your participation in reproductive healthcare in Bajoran culture  _ far _ more complicated.”

“I hear and understand all the italics in your voice,” Phil said evenly, “but as I believe my statement of intent makes clear - ” he gestured to the PADD on her desk “ - I’m not just a doctor, but a  _ Starfleet _ doctor, with not only a strong interest but an ethical  _ responsibility _ to understand the customs inherent to various cultures relative to their application to health and medicine.”

Dr. April nodded. “I understand, Phil, I do - but by that same token,  _ you  _ have to consider the Bajoran perspective on this. Male partners aside, Bajoran labor and delivery is a woman-only experience. It has been for millennia. You know this. Even if you were a human woman, we’d have some cultural hurdles to overcome; but in this case?” She paused, shaking her head. “I don’t know, Phil.”

“All right,” Phil said, “then let me switch gears to my pragmatic argument. Bajor is not a Federation member, no, but there are currently more than five hundred Bajoran officers serving in Starfleet, with another hundred in the Academy right now. That makes it statistically likely that I will be an attending physician for one or more Bajoran officers at some point in my career; and as an obstetric specialist, that makes it further likely that I would be called upon to assist in the labor and delivery of a Bajoran officer. Would it not be prudent, then, for me to observe such practices as performed by actual Bajorans, so I can replicate as culturally sensitive and appropriate an experience as possible for my patient if that need arises?”

“I don’t disagree,” Dr. April said. “And I’m not saying an outright  _ no _ to your request. The head of the Bajoran Council of Midwives will fly in next week, and we’ll meet with her then. I’ll help you make your case, but she’ll be the one who decides, not me. If you  _ were _ to do a rotation, it wouldn’t start until January, and they’re more likely to only authorize one month, not two.” She paused, smiling sympathetically at him. “I’m trying to be real with you, Phil, not to get you down. Try not to be too upset.”

Phil shook his head, smiling a little. “I’m not,” he lied. “It’s just...it’s been at the top of my list for a long time.”

Dr. April nodded. “I know.”

Phil walked home feeling a little dejected. It was a lovely, crisp fall day, but it did little to raise his spirits.  _ God,  _ he wanted this rotation. He wanted it  _ bad.  _ He’d wanted it ever since he’d begun learning about Bajoran culture in high school. Their rituals surrounding birth - the maintenance of soothing surroundings, the role of endorphins, the immense  _ respect _ for the process - he  _ desperately _ wanted to see that all in action, to take everything he could learn from it and distill how to apply it to his patients of every species. Even more, though, that concentration of feminine power, strength, energy, creativity, all in one room at the door between life and death...well. It sounded as close to a spiritual experience as Phil thought he was likely to ever have.

He opened the door to his empty apartment and sighed heavily. It was a rare day free of responsibilities - he was off, had no paperwork on which he had to catch up, and no errands to run. Chris was up on the Sagan, and at this hour, all his family was working. He could’ve distracted himself from this impending meeting with the Bajoran midwife in any number of ways, but god...his bed looked  _ so _ inviting.

_ Ping! _

He ambled over to his bed and tugged down the covers, not even bothering to change, and settled against the pillow.

_ Ping! _

Whatever. The message would be waiting for him when he got up, right?

_ PING-PING! _

Phil pseudo-sobbed into his pillow. “Why?” he asked his terminal petulantly. Climbing out of bed, he punched his terminal on, trying not to look at the bags under his eyes reflected back at him in the screen.

_ TEMPORARY ORDERS: Boyce, Philip J., M.D. (Lt.) _

_ Huh,  _ Phil thought, frowning.  _ A temp assignment?  _ It wasn’t unheard of, but temp work was not particularly common in Starfleet, on account of most of such work being, you know,  _ in space.  _

_ By order of STARFLEET COMMAND, Lt. Philip J. Boyce, M.D., serial number MCO-032152, is hereby ORDERED to report to the USS SAGAN, NCC-2026, on stardate 2238.315. Assignment: Temporary medical officer. Estimated length of assignment: 28 Terran days. Please contact Personnel by no later than 2238.308 to arrange for transport. _

Phil broke into a grin and let out a little fist pump into the air. This was a breath of fresh air. He loved his fellowship, but he was completely fried, having spent the last three years shuffling back and forth between Starfleet Medical and distant planets, having to rapid-fire code-switch not just based on situation but based on entire  _ culture;  _ and from the travel to the information overload to the transformation into conversational tofu, he was exhausted. A whole month up in the black, doing Real Starship Medicine, the kind he felt most comfortable with, all with his best friend at his side? That sounded like  _ heaven.  _ And, best case scenario, he’d be home long before any hypothetical rotation on Bajor would begin. Win-win-win.

Phil submitted the confirmation of receipt of orders, then clicked to the next message in the terminal, a subjectless one from Chris. The entire message was a moving image of two grown men - ostensibly best friends - holding hands and jumping up and down excitedly. The message’s only text was the little  _ luv, C _ at the bottom. It made Phil smile hugely.

~

“Dr. Boyce,” Dr. April said with the formality of a seasoned diplomat, “allow me to introduce Waal Zevara, Chairwoman of the Bajoran Council of Midwives.”

Waal Zevara was an intimidating but kind-looking woman. She was older, probably well into her eighties, with long white hair arranged in a complicated-looking plait over one shoulder. Phil put on his calmest, most professional smile, and Waal extended her hand. “Dr. Boyce. Your mentor here speaks highly of you.”

“She’s very kind to do so,” Phil said, shooting a grateful look toward Dr. April, who gave him a barely-there wink in return. “It’s a great privilege to meet you, Ms. Waal.”

Waal waved her hand in the air. “Nonsense. I’m just an old lady who likes to catch babies.”

“I’m just a young man who likes to catch babies,” Phil replied. “We have plenty in common.”

Waal looked at him, then inclined her head with a little smile on her face. “Quick on your feet. I like that.” She returned to her seat, gesturing to Phil to sit as well. “So, I’ve read your proposal. I’ve spoken with Dr. April. Now I want to hear it from you. Why does a human man like you want to travel to Bajor for these purposes?”

“Because your people are important,” Phil answered immediately. “Because your children are important, and their families and the people who give birth to them are important. And because I have the scientific knowledge to help them, but not the cultural knowledge. Reading all the textbooks and running all the simulations in the world is no substitute for real situations with real people and real decision-making. It’s important to me to fix that deficiency in my knowledge so I can provide any Bajoran patients I may have in the future with the closest replication to Bajoran care that a human man like me is able to give them.”

Waal nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a sound argument,” she said. “You do, of course, understand that the very cultural understanding you’re seeking generally prohibits the very processes by which you would attain that understanding?”

“I do,” Phil affirmed, “and from a Bajoran perspective, suspicion of me and my request is completely understandable. I don’t know how to alleviate that. I don’t even know that I  _ can.  _ All I can do is attempt to assure you that it is not my aim in any way to violate, denigrate, or criticize the Bajoran people or your cultural practices and institutions, and certainly not to attempt to reform them. All I’m seeking is  _ knowledge.” _

Waal leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, as if she was scrutinizing Phil down to his marrow; it desperately made him want to squirm, but he resisted the urge. “Why do you do this work, Dr. Boyce?”

Phil blinked.  _ Which work? Medicine? Ob/gyn? Starfleet?  _ “Can you be more specific, Ms. Waal?”

Waal smiled patiently. “We are operating with several cultural divides between us, you see,” she said. “Bajoran and human, midwife and physician, woman and man. We come into this conversation with vastly different understandings of the...shall we call them  _ analogous _ processes we professionally support. Now, I know why  _ I  _ do this work; I can’t quite figure out why  _ you _ would.”

There were countless things unsaid in Waal’s words, assumptions about gender and sexuality and humanity and obstetrics as a medical discipline, to which Phil could have taken offense, had he not known Waal did not intend them that way. “When I was four years old,” he began, “I watched my mother give birth to my sister. She was a precipitous birth, slightly preterm, born into my father’s hands in our bathtub.” He paused and smiled, looking down at his hands, going back in time thirty years for just a moment and seeing that bright green washcloth between his fingers. “It wasn’t the medicine that intrigued me,” he continued. “I was only four; I had a very rudimentary understanding of what was actually going on. It was my mother’s strength, the sheer amount of power she demonstrated, that interplay between absolute dominion over one’s body and surrender to the processes of nature.” He shrugged slightly. “It hooked me. I needed to support and understand and foster that. This was the best way to do it.”

Waal’s face softened measurably. She bent her head, looking at her own wizened hands, just as Phil had just done. Her earring caught the light and glinted, blinding Phil for a nanosecond. “It chose you,” she said quietly.

Phil nodded. “Yes.”

She smiled. “Me, too.” There was a long pause in which Phil felt certain she was reliving her own experience that hooked her, which he wisely decided not to ruin with words. Then, Waal sighed slightly. “I will need some time to consider your request, Dr. Boyce,” she said, not unkindly. “If you would permit me a few days to meditate and consult with my fellow midwives, I can be in touch by this time next week.”

Phil was a little deflated at the absence of an immediate response, but he tried not to let it show and simply nodded. “By all means.”

After Waal rose, Dr. April and then Phil did as well. Waal first clasped Dr. April’s hands and said something in Bajoran that Phil didn’t understand, but that made Dr. April smile. Waal then turned to him, grabbing both his hands with a strength that belied her age.

“It’s been an honor meeting with you, Ms. Waal,” Phil said.

Waal smiled up at him. “You are a curious man, Dr. Boyce,” she said enigmatically. “No matter what happens with this possible rotation, I certainly look forward to following your career as it unfolds.” She squeezed his hands. “May the Prophets guide your healing hands.”

Phil inclined his head and smiled. “And yours. Thank you.”

When she left, Phil and Dr. April looked at each other.

“Great job,” Dr. April said.

“You think it’ll work?” Phil asked.

Dr. April shrugged slightly. “I hope so.”

~

One week later, Phil was in a shuttle at warp three, zipping toward the Sagan, when his PADD  _ pinged!  _

_ Dear Dr. Boyce, _

_ It was a peculiar but genuine pleasure meeting with you last week. Your commitment to the work of helping birthing people and families is greatly admirable, and your passion shines through. Permit me to say that, while I came into our meeting with many doubts about you, I left warmed and humbled by our interaction. _

_ After meditating on the matter, I made the decision to recommend you to the Council of Midwives for a fellowship rotation. At our meeting two days ago, my recommendation was met with no small amount of backlash, as you can perhaps imagine given our own conversation. I tried to assuage my fellow midwives’ concerns, to mixed effect. Ultimately, a compromise was reached. _

_ We are prepared to offer you a fellowship rotation of one Terran month in Kendra Province on Bajor under the supervision of the Kendran Midwives Alliance. You will be granted access to our research labs, our simulators, and any texts you request to further your understanding of Bajoran intimate and procreative culture and physiology. You may also participate in routine prenatal visits and basic healthcare screenings. However, despite my recommendation, my fellow midwives remained firm on their insistence that you not participate in any births. They fear that the presence of a person foreign to their patients - a human man, at that - will disrupt the calm environment essential during labor and birth. _

_ I know this is likely to come as a disappointment to you. Nevertheless, I do hope that you will accept this offer as it stands. Your goals are laudable and merit this honor. Regardless, I look forward to following your undoubtedly bright future. _

_ In care of the Prophets, I remain, _

__ Waal Zevara  
_ President, Eastern Province Midwives Association  
_ __ Chairwoman, Bajoran Council of Midwives

Phil leaned his head back and rested it against his seat. It was the truest kind of bittersweet, being offered his dream opportunity without the component that would have truly  _ made _ it his dream opportunity. He swallowed, sighed, and put his PADD back in his pocket. He was going to accept the offer, no question, but he needed a moment to sit with it.

~

Chris was waiting for Phil in the transporter room, a long slim line of gold and black, and dear  _ god,  _ had he gotten  _ more _ attractive in the six weeks since Phil had last seen him, or was Phil just much thirstier than he’d thought?

“Hey, Chrissy,” he said through a grin he was powerless to repress.

Chris didn’t even say anything. He just smiled, walked right up to the transporter pad, and hugged Phil. “God, I’ve missed you,” he mumbled in a voice too low for the transporter chief to hear.

Something inside of Phil melted and he patted Chris’ back. “Missed you too.”

Over Chris’ shoulder, Phil could’ve sworn he saw the transporter chief raise her eyebrow just the tiniest bit. She wisely said nothing, so Phil did likewise.

“Did you hear back from the Bajorans yet?” Chris asked, walking Phil down the corridor to his quarters.

“Yeah,” Phil said glumly, “on my way here.”

“They said no?”

“They said yes to everything but baby catching.”

Chris scoffed. “Fucking ridiculous. I’m sorry.”

Phil shrugged. “Not ridiculous from their perspective.”

“Still.” Chris punched in the code to open his quarters and ushered Phil inside.

Phil paused and smiled fondly just inside the door. The lights were low, but the sofa was already made up with a pillow and blanket, and on the desk, next to Chris’ terminal, sat a brand-new science division uniform in the Sagan’s design.

“I had to guess on the sizing, but I think I got it close enough,” Chris said, raking his fingers through his hair. “The sheets are clean, I promise. And I put a bunch more recipes in the memory of my replicator. I have no idea how good any of them are; I just randomly picked some from the vegetarian section. Something something primavera shit? I dunno. What else?...oh! We’re both on Alpha most of the time you’re here. I have an 0600 alarm and an 0630  _ get your ass up you lazy bastard _ backup. You will, I assume, be favoring the latter.” He let out a breath, looking around the room, and shrugged. “Feel like I’m forgetting something.”

Phil smiled, letting his duffel hit the floor and wrapping an arm around Chris. “You’re not. Thank you.”

Chris put his head on Phil’s shoulder. “Wish you could stay more than a month.”

Phil bravely resisted the urge to plant his face in Chris’ hair. “I do too.”

This assignment to the Sagan was work, yes, but compared to the work Phil had been putting into his fellowship, it felt more like vacation. The ship’s medical staff was nice, though not the most experienced at being without their intrepid CMO, who’d come down with Andorian shingles and was confined to quarters, hence Phil’s necessity. The medicine was on the boring side, but again, that made it more like an academic vacation - routine vaccinations, space sickness, a couple of broken bones, a trio in Stellar Cartography who seemed to be swapping the same STI back and forth. More than enough time to read and gear himself up for a month on Bajor. Plus, the biggest bonus of all: going “home” to Chris’ quarters at the end of the day, eating dinner and binging holoseries until they fell asleep.

Oh, right...he also got roped into being part of a diplomatic envoy for a first contact and got himself arrested again. You know, as you do. But it was for a very good cause, he promised; and Chris made it all better, for which Phil would owe him for the term of their natural lives. Chris made  _ very sure _ Phil knew that.

Being around Chris again was wonderful in the way that being around Chris was always wonderful. Even so, though, Phil thought he seemed...hmm.  _ Testy _ wasn’t quite the right word. Nor was  _ frazzled. _ Irritable, maybe? Even now, just putting the dishes from dinner in the replicator for recycling, he seemed to be working  _ something _ out with the flat of his hand on the surface of the machine. Chris was the most rock-steady officer in the ‘Fleet - there was a reason he got commissioned straight to Lieutenant Commander - but in private, he had always been rather mercurial, and it seemed to be in a weird sort of flare right now. (Even  _ before _ Phil got himself arrested on an alien world, not that that helped matters.) Finding out Chris and Siobhan weren’t having sex yet demystified things a  _ little,  _ but something still nagged at the back of Phil’s mind. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

_ Never, ever ignore your intuition. It is smarter than you are. _

“Fucking  _ finally,” _ Chris intoned as the dishes dematerialized, rolling his eyes and returning to the couch. “Are you gonna finish your beer?”

Phil handed it over, watching Chris’ Adam’s apple bob as he took a swig of it, and let his brow crease a little in something resembling concern.


	11. Chapter 11

“Dr. Boyce?” a melodic voice said behind him. Phil turned, squinting into the glare of the Bajoran sunlight. The woman who’d spoken was more than a head shorter than him, with a pregnant belly and fiery red hair that reminded him painfully of Lily arranged in a braid encircling her head. She grinned at him broadly. “I’m Kira Selah. Welcome to Kendra Province.”

Phil smiled back at her. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Kira.”

“Please, call me Selah,” she said with a little roll of her eyes before turning her head. “Pellan! He’s over here!” She turned back to Phil. “My husband. A little useless at times, but you get used to him.”

“What’s this slander I hear?” A desperately handsome man extended his hand to Phil. “Kira Pellan. Husband, father-to-be, cook, guilty party.”

“Phil Boyce,” Phil introduced himself. “I like you guys already.”

Selah took Phil by the arm. “C’mon. Let’s get you settled.”

Pellan drove through the countryside while Phil sat in the back with Selah and talked. “I hope this doesn’t sound ridiculously impolite, but I know there was a lot of pushback to my coming here. I wasn’t expecting such a warm welcome.”

“Nonsense,” Selah said. “I was an immediate yes for you to come here. The more allies and advocates we have in the galaxy, the better. Besides, if it leaves Zevara’s mouth, I trust it, and she spoke very highly of you.”

“I didn’t realize you knew her so well.”

“Very well. She made my rug.”

Phil cocked his head to the side. “She...what?”

Selah laughed a tinkling little laugh. “Sorry. A Bajoran idiom of sorts. See, when an established midwife thinks an apprentice midwife is ready to be on her own, she tells her by gifting her a handmade rug. It’s sort of a graduation present, I guess; it’s supposed to symbolize the foundation - our apprenticeship - on which we now stand as full-fledged midwives.” She smiled. “I was Zevara’s apprentice, so she made mine.”

Phil smiled. “That’s a beautiful tradition.”

“Some of the more modern midwives think it’s kind of silly,” Selah explained, “but I love it.” She paused to sneeze repeatedly.  _ “Ugh,  _ sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Phil said, handing her a tissue. “How much longer have you got?”

Selah groaned loudly. “A month. A very, very long month.” She turned to him. “How human women make it  _ nine _ months, I’ll never understand. Five seems like torture.”

“I’ve heard Bajoran fetuses are pretty lively in there.”

“Yeah, and Kiras doubly so,” Selah said, teasingly kicking the back of Pellan’s seat and winking when he glared affectionately at her in the rear view mirror.

They pulled into the driveway of a small, cozy-looking home surrounded by what looked like a Bajoran analogue of creeping ivy. It reminded Phil a little of Maine, and at first, he wasn’t sure why. The house bore little resemblance to the old Cape Cod house he’d grown up in, and Maine’s greenery was rarely quite so lush.

Then it hit him.  _ It feels like a home. It feels like a family belongs here. _

Pellan had to dash off to work as soon as they arrived, so Selah let them into the house. As soon as the door opened, Phil’s breath left him in a rush. Blanketed over the floor in the entryway was a plush, almost iridescent area rug, so finely woven that he couldn’t identify individual stitches. It looked like an impressionist depiction of some kind of fruiting tree, its roots tangled under the ground and its branches heavy with multicolored orbs.

“This is your rug,” Phil breathed. He crouched, running his fingers along the edge of the fabric; it felt vaguely like silk, deceptively wispy to his touch.

Selah smiled. “This is my rug,” she confirmed softly. “Zevara handed it to me and asked the Prophets to bless my hands. It was the greatest moment of my life.” She paused, snorting slightly. “Don’t tell Pellan that; he thinks it was when I married him, the poor dear. Anyway, if you’d like to get settled, we can go down to the central clinic and I can make introductions.”

Phil nodded dazedly, feeling strangely attached to this symbol. “Yeah. Yeah, the clinic. Okay.”

~

“Kenza?” Selah approached a very tall woman; even from behind, Phil found her intimidating.

“What is it, Selah?” the woman -  _ Kenza?  _ \- asked.

“I want to introduce you to someone. This is Dr. Philip Boyce, the human on rotation with us.”

Phil saw, but did not hear, her  _ immense _ sigh. She turned to face him.  _ (Nope, no less intimidating from the front.)  _ “Dr. Boyce,” she said with a stiff smile and a nod.

Selah turned to Phil. “This is Taris Kenza, one of our head midwives. She’ll be your primary point of contact during your rotation.”

Phil put on his most congenial smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Taris.”

Taris did not return the greeting, a fact that did not escape Phil’s attention. “So,” she said, folding her arms. “You’re the human. You’re the man. You’re the  _ doctor.” _ Her words were pregnant with multiple adjectives, none of them flattering.

Before Phil could respond, Selah sighed next to him.  _ “Kenza,”  _ she implored, “you  _ heard _ what Zevara said. He’s just here to learn and observe, not to interfere.”

“What is the expression of your people, Doctor?  _ A rooster in the henhouse,  _ I believe? That’s what we’ve got here, Selah. In more ways than one.”

“Oh,  _ spare us  _ the xenophobia, would you?” Another midwife joined the scene, washing her hands at the tap behind Taris.

“That’s Adaya Meru,” Selah said to Phil  _ sotto voce.  _ “She’s our chief. Been doing this forever. She’s awesome.”

“His humanity is the  _ least _ of my problems with his being on this ward and you  _ know that,”  _ Taris hissed to Adaya. Phil was quite sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that.

Adaya smiled at Taris, a smile that clearly said  _ it’s a shame I’ll have to kill you now.  _ It reminded Phil of Chris a little, and he bit his lips together to suppress a smile. “Go catch a baby, Kenza.”

Taris huffed, then stalked off. Adaya turned her attention to Phil and grinned broadly. Her bright teeth, dark skin, and vibrant green eyes made her a truly striking woman. “Hi, Dr. Boyce. I’m Adaya Meru. Welcome to Kendra.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here. Please, call me Phil.”

“Call me Meru. Say, listen...Zevara told me you had some specialization in cross-species health education?”

Phil nodded. “That was the subject of my MPH.” When Meru and Selah both cocked their heads in confusion, he remembered that that acronym meant nothing here. “Sorry...my advanced public health degree.”

Meru nodded. “I think I can use you for a patient I’m seeing right now.” She turned to Selah. “Mind if I steal him?”

Selah shrugged. “We were just poking around here. Go for it.”

Meru looped her arm through Phil’s and escorted him down the hall to a consult room, chatting about the patient’s history the whole way.

That initial tour of the clinic served as a pretty concise preview of what the rest of his rotation was going to entail. He would arrive at the clinic early, get huffed at/insulted/vaguely threatened by Taris, have Meru pull him for as many cases as she could manage, and periodically bother Selah about where the spare tricorder sensors or hypospray cartridges were kept. In between, he spent most of his time in the basement sim labs, playing around with different simulations of Bajoran labor and birth and figuring out the best culturally appropriate practices for both normal and complicated births. Bajoran and human reproductive anatomy was really quite similar, so the anatomical processes really weren’t that different; but the chemistry involved, the endocrinology, was a diametric opposite of anything birthing humans experienced. Phil loved it - these were the same sims midwives-in-training used, so the quality was excellent - but nothing would ever compare to real one-on-one patient interaction, the dyad of patient and physician that he so loved.

_ Technology is extraordinary and should be used with vigor, but it should never be a substitute for your own hands and mind. _

Meru was off every fourth day, which meant Phil tried very hard to make himself invisible every fourth day. Taris appeared to be an excellent midwife with a deep love for her patients and a phenomenally comprehensive mental register of clinical information, but  _ hot damn,  _ she did  _ not _ like Phil in her clinic and was  _ not _ shy about making that clear. Phil understood that he was a stranger in a strange land - this was Taris’ turf and her people’s process and his presence there was a privilege and not a right - but honestly, where was the ceiling on this woman’s hostility toward him?

He came into the clinic on the morning of one such fourth day sans Meru and consulted the midwives’ schedules.  _ Huh.  _ One of Meru’s patients was coming in - no, was  _ checked _ in - for a problem visit, scheduled to see Taris in Meru’s absence. Phil had seen the patient and her wife several times; they were an older couple, sweet and very funny, and seemed to take to Phil in a heartbeat. He would  _ hate _ to miss this visit, especially if something might be wrong.

“Ms. Taris? Could I speak to you for a moment?”

There was that visible-yet-inaudible sigh from behind again. “Yes, Dr. Boyce?”

“I was looking at your schedule today, and it looks like you’re fixing to see Thaan Ketra, one of Meru’s patients. She’s here for an antenatal problem visit.”

Taris looked at him and shrugged. “And?”

“And I’d like to participate in her care today.”

“Why?” The question was oddly toneless.

“For continuity of care,” Phil answered. “I’ve seen Ketra at her last three prenatal visits. She and Remi know me quite well. They can anticipate my care. They can read my tone of voice. I think it would be valuable to provide them with the reassurance of a known presence, especially with the possibility of something being wrong.”

Taris shook her head. “You’re aware I’m a fully qualified midwife, right? That I can handle whatever this problem may be  _ by myself,  _ without medicalizing it like your people do?”

“I am,” Phil answered immediately. “And I’m not proposing to medicalize it, nor to take on her care myself. I only want to  _ participate _ in her care. You can determine how much or how little that happens, but I think the patient and her wife  _ and her baby  _ would benefit from my presence.”

Taris turned her attention back to a touchscreen on the wall with lab values. She hit a few spots before speaking again, her voice dull. “Fine. She’s in curtain D. Go assess her.”

Phil nodded. “Thank you.” He resisted the urge to stomp off and redirected that energy into a deep breath.

_ When you walk into the room with a patient, leave everything else at the door. _

~

Phil knew it was late. Through the sim lab’s skylight, Phil could see one of Bajor’s moons - he wasn’t sure which one - shining in a waning crescent against the black sky. He was the only one in the building right now; it was perfectly quiet, and it gave him a golden opportunity to focus on a scenario of endorphin toxicity reversal.

“Dr. Boyce.”

_ Or not. _

Phil turned. Taris stood in the doorway. “Ms. Taris?”

“Your presence has been requested by a laboring parent.” Taris said it with the same tone in which she might’ve said  _ I just stepped in a large pile of excrement and it won’t come off my shoe. _

“I’m sorry?”

Taris sighed. “Kira Selah is in labor. She has requested you be present.”

Phil’s heart warmed.  _ Dear, good Selah.  _ “I thought I wasn’t permitted to attend births.”

“Meru is of the opinion that denying Selah her request will disrupt her calm and prevent the flow of endorphins,” Taris said. “She’s the chief midwife. I’m not in a position to argue with her.”  _ If I was, I would _ went unsaid.

Phil shut down the sim and grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go, then.”

“Listen,” Taris said lowly, “Selah may request you there, and Meru may permit it, but neither of them can stop me from saying this to you. Remember your place in that room. Doctors like you are used to being in charge, but you’re on Bajor now. You are  _ not _ in charge.”

“Nor are you,” Phil couldn’t help but say. “Selah’s in charge.”

Taris opened her mouth to retort, found herself unable to argue the point, and wound up just blinking a few times before stammering, “Let’s go.”

The drive back to the Kira home was predictably silent and tense. When Phil and Taris entered, it was to the spicy smell of incense, a soft drumming sound, and low lighting. Meru was sitting unobtrusively in one corner of the room, observing without making it obvious she was observing; Selah lay on her back on a bed, eyes closed, Pellan softly coaching her through her breathing. It was so  _ peaceful,  _ especially compared to the usually high-energy, sometimes downright frantic births to which Phil was accustomed.

Selah opened her eyes, looked to Phil, and smiled in recognition. “You came!”

Phil smiled, approaching her and touching her hand. “I wouldn’t have missed it. How are you feeling?”

Selah smiled, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Better now.”

Phil tried to mimic Meru’s unobtrusive stance. He had to strike a delicate balance, one that let Selah and Pellan see him and know that he was there for them while still keeping him out of Meru’s, and especially Taris’, way. The midwives were silent unless they were talking to Selah; the only sound in the room came from her deep breaths and the hypnotic percussion in the background. Then, just as the sky was starting to lighten outside the windows, Selah opened her eyes and said a tiny  _ “oh.” _

Meru was calm, placing her hands on Selah’s knees. “You feel her coming?”

Selah nodded, a little anxiously. “Yes.”

“Breathe, Selah,” Taris reminded her gently. “Breathe. Flow.”

Selah’s brow smoothed and her breathing evened out. She looked over to Phil and smiled softly. “No more sneezing soon.” Everyone laughed, including Selah. “Oh.  _ Oh. _ She’s coming.”

Meru nodded. “I’m ready.”

Phil knew that, while Bajoran labors could start and stop and speed up and slow down many, many times over, as dictated by endorphin levels and depth of relaxation, once a labor had progressed, deliveries were usually pretty swift processes. But Selah’s delivery didn’t seem to be following that pattern. Taris was trying to keep her face neutral, but Meru had a tiny frown on her face that Phil had never seen her wear before.

_ Something’s wrong, _ he thought.

“Kenza,” Meru said in a deliberately steady,  _ very serious business _ voice too low for Selah to hear, “apply suprapubic pressure.”

_ Dystocia. There’s a dystocia. _

“Attempting to shift the baby’s orientation obliquely.”

_ Rubin maneuver. _

Meru closed her eyes and gave a tiny shake of her head.  _ “Damn.” _

Phil had an idea. He knew damn well Taris might tear him a new one. He knew it wasn’t his place, and that this might be viewed as an intrusion of Earth medicine into Bajoran midwifery. He also knew that shoulder dystocia was  _ bad news  _ and that it needed to be fixed  _ promptly _ or the baby would be in grave jeopardy.

“May I help?” he asked softly.

Taris, surprisingly, didn’t even look up from her task. Meru, however, did. “Come here, Phil.”

Phil stepped over, putting a hand on Selah’s knee and smiling at her before he spoke to the midwives. “Can we reposition her?”

“I just tried,” Meru said. “It didn’t work.”

“No, no, not the baby. Selah. Can we reposition Selah?”

Taris gave him an ever-so-brief look as if he’d grown another head, but Meru simply said, “I don’t see what it would hurt.”

Phil nodded, then approached the head of the bed. “Selah, the baby’s having a little trouble getting out. You’re not doing anything wrong; I just think there’s another position you could be in that she might like better.” He turned to Pellan. “Would you mind helping her roll onto her hands and knees?”

Selah did so, with Pellan supporting her weight until she’d settled in the right position, with her spine arched. As Selah adjusted her position, arching her back like a cat, Meru’s eyes grew wide.  _ That did something,  _ Phil thought. “Attempting rotation of the anterior shoulder...almost... _ ha!” _

As Meru gave a tiny laugh of victory, the pink, squalling little girl slipped easily into her hands. Phil grinned, and Taris just looked with awe and fascination at the baby. Phil waited for Meru to say the traditional Bajoran greeting for a newborn, but instead, she looked to him, her smile wide.

“I think you’ve earned this, Doctor.”

Phil felt himself grow a little faint. He wordlessly nodded to Meru, as if to say  _ are you sure?;  _ Meru just laughed and nodded back. He stroked his finger down the baby’s cheek. “Awake, child. We await you with love and welcome you into the world.”

As Meru wrapped the baby up and took her to see her parents, Taris took Phil by the elbow and gently guided him into a corner of the room. “What the hell was that?”

Ah, yes, the  _ ripping him a new one _ he’d seen coming. “I know, it wasn’t my place; but the baby was - ”

“No, no, not that - your suggestion,” Taris corrected. “I wasn’t expecting a doctor to suggest a solution without drugs or machines or knives, let alone one that  _ worked. _ What was that?”

Phil smiled. “The Gaskin maneuver. An ancient Earth technique to help relieve shoulder dystocia. Moving the birthing partner to a hands-and-knees position and arching the back broadens the pelvic outlet along the baby’s occipitofrontal diameter.” He shrugged. “Bigger door to get out.”

Taris shook her head. “Remarkable.”

“It should be,” Phil said. “It was named after a midwife.”

~

Meru had graciously given Phil her consent to download a few sims to his PADD to take home, and so he spent a good portion of his last day on Bajor in the sim lab cramming his PADD’s memory full. When he turned to search for a new data chip in his bag, he was mildly startled by the silhouette in the door.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Boyce,” Taris said, walking into the light. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She had a large bag over her shoulder that Phil had seen her carry often; he assumed she was on her way to a home visit.

“It’s okay. I was kind of in my own world there.” Phil walked closer to her. “What’s up?”

Taris pursed her lips. There seemed to be a thin glaze of anxiety on her face, which, for a woman Phil had never seen even mildly rattled, was interesting. “Today’s your last day with us.”

Phil nodded. “My shuttle’s in a couple hours.”

Taris bent her head. “I believe I owe you an apology.” Her words were methodical, as if she wanted to convey to Phil that she was speaking with intent. “I don’t think I’m exactly spilling secrets when I tell you that I was opposed to you coming here.”

Phil smiled slightly. “I gathered as much.”

“Please know that it had  _ nothing _ to do with you being human,” Taris said. “It didn’t even have to do with you being a man. That bothered me, I admit, but it wasn’t at the top of my list. It was because you were a doctor.” She swallowed hard, fixing her eyes on one of the control panels. “You’re trained to intervene; I’m trained to let nature run its course. You’re trained to prescribe and operate; I’m trained to breathe and flow. The medicalization of a natural event like birth just seems…” She paused, laughing a little under her breath.  _ “Alien.” _

Phil smiled gently. “Sometimes it does to me, too.”

Taris looked back up at him. “I was suspicious of you. Of your motives. We’re not a naturally superstitious people, but we’re fiery, and we’ll put up a hell of a fight against anybody who tries to change our way of life. I assumed a doctor - a human male doctor, at that - would be coming here with another agenda.”

“I understand,” Phil said. “And I don’t blame you. The field of obstetrics on Earth has a history that’s chilling, sometimes shameful, for very similar reasons - especially when practiced by men, and by white men at that. Even among humans, those suspicions you speak of aren’t unique or even rare, and unfortunately, that’s often for good reason.”

“Perhaps,” Taris said, “but you proved them wrong. Every last one of them. You have the intellect and the tenacity I expected from a physician, but you also have the compassion and the openness and the  _ grace _ I very much did not.” She placed a tentative hand on top of Phil’s. “Selah’s baby almost certainly would’ve died without you. Selah herself might’ve died without you. You could have seen that moment as an opportunity to show off, to prove yourself as a surgeon and save this poor alien woman and her baby from these backwards midwives who trust breath more than drugs...but you didn’t. You intervened, but with the utmost respect, not just for Selah and Pellan and their daughter, not even just for me and Meru, but for our process, for our traditions, for Bajor itself.” Taris shook her head. “I did not expect that, Dr. Boyce. It was a complete rejection of my every fear about you.” She looked him in the eye; her face was softer and more open than Phil had seen it in the entire previous month. “I have been so unnecessarily hostile to you out of ignorance and fear, and I am ashamed of myself. I apologize.”

_ When someone offers you honest contrition for a wrong, be gracious and accept it. _

Phil smiled. “Try not to be too hard on yourself, Ms. Taris,” he said. “I accept your apology.”

Taris nodded. “Thank you.”

Above their heads, the computer chimed. “Well,” Phil said, “my download’s done.”

“Which sims are you taking back?”

“A couple of the ones I didn’t get to finish - endorphin toxicity, respiratory suppression, things like that. I’m also taking a couple of the basic ones; I want to see if my fellowship advisor will consent to integrating them into our xenomedical sim lab.” He smiled. “Bajor may not be a Federation member, but I suspect our peoples will be working together a lot in the coming years; it’d be prudent for me to not be the only Starfleet doctor with this knowledge.” Phil slipped his PADD and data chips into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, turning back to face Taris. “My shuttle’s soon. I should be heading out.”

“Before you go,” Taris said, “I have something to give you.” When Phil smiled and nodded for her to continue, Taris flushed lightly. “I tried to think of a way to properly convey to you how sorry I am for my hostility, and how deeply you have impressed me, as a doctor and as a person. This was all I could think to do.”

Taris reached into her bag and pulled out…

“Oh my god.”

Five brilliant moons, each in different phases, glowing in a navy blue sky over a tree heavy with multi-colored fruit, a beautiful bird peering out from its branches, and the figure of a woman on her hands and knees below it, all intricately, spectacularly woven into a plush, iridescent,  _ beautiful _ rug. Phil reached out a hand and touched it, the image blurring as he did; it felt at once durable and whisper-delicate.

“Selah’s explained the significance to you?”

Phil nodded, blinking; he felt a tear leave his eye. “Yes,” he said faintly.

This was not a token of appreciation for services rendered. This was not a gift of contrition or a wish for safe travels. This was a gift from one midwife  _ to another. _

“The tree is from Selah’s rug,” Taris explained softly. “The moons are from Zevara’s. The  _ sheyka _ owl is from mine. And the woman...well. She is yours.”

Phil’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “I...I’m…” He tore his eyes away from the carpet; Taris was smiling. “I don’t know what to say,” he finally stammered.  _ “Thank you _ seems...so pathetically inadequate.”

Taris laughed lightly. “It’ll do.” She folded the carpet and put it into Phil’s arms, holding on to his hands. “Will you come back to us?”

“It would be my honor.”

“Good. I want to work with you again...properly, next time.”

Phil nodded. “I would love that.”

Taris took both of his hands in hers, squeezing them lightly. “May the Prophets keep you safe, Philip Boyce.”

“And you, Taris Kenza.”

~

_ “Chrissykins to Peej. Come in, Peej.” _

Phil smiled and shook his head as he flipped his communicator open. “I’m gonna murder Lily for telling you about that damned nickname.”

Chris laughed.  _ “Listen, little change of plans. Siobhan’s actually gonna pick me up from the transport hub.”  _ He paused significantly.  _ “We’re gonna have an evening.” _

“Oh.” Then it clicked.  _ “Ohh,  _ an  _ evening,  _ I see.”

_ “Shut up.” _

“Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

_ “What wouldn’t you do, exactly?” _

Phil rolled his eyes. “Ass.”

_ “You’ve  _ definitely  _ done that.” _

“Sometimes I look at you and forget everything I know about you.” Phil settled back on his pillows. “Well, if your girlfriend has custody of you tonight, come over tomorrow. I’ll make a celebration brunch.”

_ “Brunch?” _

“Brunch.” A pause. “Look, I’m queer. Indulge me.”

_ “What is brunch, anyway?” _

“An excuse for getting drunk before noon.”

_ “There’s a special name for that? I just call it ‘morning.’” _

“I fear for your liver, Christopher. No champagne, though. Champagne bottles scare me.”

_ “Sounds like a rich boy problem.” _

“Fine, champagne it is. Be here at eleven.”

_ “Will do.” _

“Unless you, y’know, can’t walk.”

_ “Fuck you. See you in the morning.” _

“G’night, Chrissykins.”

~

Just after eleven the next morning, Phil was making waffles when he heard Chris call his name. “In here!” he yelled.

Phil looked up as Chris walked in. He looked... _ weird.  _ Shellshocked, maybe? He was walking  _ really _ slowly and seemed to be paying great attention to his breathing. And what was this expression on his face?

“Hey,” Phil said softly. “You okay?”

Chris visibly swallowed and put on the fakest smile Phil had ever seen him wear. “Uh huh.”

“Liar.” Phil took the waffle out of the maker, set it on a plate, and pulled out a chair for Chris. “What is it?”

Chris’ lips moved a little, but no sound came out except for a tiny “um.”

“Chris, it’s me,” Phil said. “What is it?”

Chris took a heavy breath. “You know how...you know how Siobhan was gonna pick me up from the transport hub last night?”

“Mmhmm…”

“And we were gonna…”

“Mmhmm…”

“Uh...well…” Chris sighed and put his head in his hands. “I may have asked her to marry me.”

For the tiniest, most blissful moment, Phil thought he’d blacked out. “What?”

Chris sighed again and put his forehead against the table. “She said something about marrying me...and it was  _ right after... _ and it’d been  _ so long,  _ and I just...I just…”

Phil sank slowly into a chair next to Chris so as to avoid collapsing to the floor and tried in vain to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say to that.

“Do you  _ want _ to marry her?” he finally chanced.

“I don’t know,” Chris said. “I love her. I know that. But marry her?...I don’t know.” He threw his hands up in the air. “But I’m apparently  _ going to. _ She’s already talking about dates and dresses and caterers and shit. You can’t exactly  _ take back _ a proposal. ‘Sorry, babe, I don’t  _ actually _ want to marry you; it was just post-orgasmic insanity.’” Chris shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “I can’t do that to her. I  _ can’t.” _

Phil tried very hard to keep his breathing, his heart rate, his entire autonomic nervous system from completely flying off the rails, but it wasn’t working very well. “So...what? You’re getting married?”

Chris stayed still for a moment. Then, very slowly, he nodded. “I’m getting married.”

Something in Phil screamed, raw and pained. Something in Phil cried out nonsensically -  _ don’t do it don’t break your own heart I can’t watch you do this I can’t watch you marry another person you’re making a mistake please god Christopher don’t do this I love you I love you I love you.  _ But the words mercifully got lost on the way to his mouth, and he kept the scream inside, letting it fester and ache and raise hell in his chest.

_ Maybe the thing that really makes true love beautiful and ethereal is the ability to let it go. _

“Well,” Phil said, his voice rasping a little. “Congratulations, then.”

Chris looked up at him. “You’ll support me?”

Phil swallowed back a burning in his throat. “No matter what.”

_ Love. No matter what. _


	12. Chapter 12

_ “Pike to Boyce.” _

It was two in the morning. Phil was home, having just gotten off call and about seventy percent asleep, when Chris commed him. He rolled over in bed, opened the comm, and didn’t even pick it up to speak into it. “Good morning, Christopher.”

_ “It’s not morning; it’s - fuck. Fuck, I’m sorry.” _

“It’s okay. I was up. Well, up-adjacent.” Phil ran a hand over his face. “What’s going on? You okay?”

_ “Yeah. It’s not important. I’m sorry. Go back to bed. I’ll comm you tomorrow.” _

“Chris.”

On the other end of the line, Chris sighed long and low.  _ “I think I’m lonely.” _

“Lonely?”

_ “I don’t know. Siobhan went back to Ireland today, just for a couple days to get the rest of her stuff, and...this house is freaking me out, man.”  _ He gave a little self-deprecating laugh.  _ “The damn bed’s too big for one person. I went from sleeping on my childhood bed to your couch to the futon to a single on a starship; I’m not used to that much room without another person next to me. So I came out to try to sleep on Siobhan’s stepdad’s old couch, and it didn’t work, and now I’m up and looking up wedding stuff, and I just found out that it’s ‘I thee wed’ and not ‘I be wed’ like I thought, and I’m just so…”  _ He trailed off.

“You wanna come over?”

Chris sighed again.  _ “No. No, you need your sleep.” _

“So do you. Come over and we’ll both sleep.”

_ “I don’t wanna be any trouble.” _

“You’ve been trouble since the day I met you. It’s beside the point. Come over.”

_ “Are you sure?” _

“Good god, you could’ve gotten here from Marin by now.  _ Yes,  _ I’m sure. Come over.”

Chris came over. He had Phil’s door code, but he knocked anyway, because, again, it was the middle of the night. Phil answered the door with pillow and blanket in hand and settled him in his old spot on the futon where he belonged. Chris sank into the plush of the futon, sighed happily, and was asleep in seconds.

Phil just smiled slightly and shook his head. He had tried - really, he had! - to not let himself get too down about Chris’ engagement. Worry, yes, absolutely; Phil still wasn’t convinced that Chris and Siobhan marrying even held the shape of a wise idea - but not disappointment. Nothing  _ called _ for true disappointment. After all, it wasn’t as though Phil had ever really had a chance with Chris anyway, right? What was he really losing, here in the real world? What was there to grieve beyond the rose-colored fantasy of Chris waking up one morning and going gay just for Phil? One of a set of best friends got married all the time without the friendship sustaining any damage; that was really all that was happening here. He and Chris would be fine. It would all be fine in the end. Phil knew this.

But  _ god, _ this man. This man who couldn’t sleep in too big a bed, who took seven sugars in his coffee, who could solve quantum physics problems in his head but couldn’t make a pancake, who called his best friend at two in the morning because he didn’t want to be alone. This funny, stubborn, brilliant, frustrating, brave, infuriating, beautiful man.

Phil ran his fingers through Chris’ hair, just once. Chris didn’t wake, but he leaned into Phil’s hand.

_ Dammit, Christopher. _

Yeah, sometimes it got to him.

The next morning, Phil awoke to Chris, still with bedhead and morning stubble, sipping a cup of his syrupy coffee and perched on the side of Phil’s bed. It would’ve startled Phil, had he not wanted to wake up to that very sight every damn day of his life for the past eleven years.

“Morning,” Chris said. “Wanna go on a date?”

Phil had a tiny heart attack of  _ am I still dreaming?  _ quality before he realized Chris was just being a smartass and he should respond in kind.

“Sure,” he answered. “Will I have to put out?”

“Well, obviously,” Chris snickered.

“Great. You’re buying, then.” Phil yawned. “What are we doing?”

“I’ve made reservations for us on the futon, where we shall sit, watch TV, consume pizza and beer, and convert oxygen into carbon dioxide.” A rumble of thunder sounded outside. “It’s a gorgeous day for it,” Chris deadpanned.

Phil smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

~

“I want a dog.”

They’d been watching an appraisal of antique kitchen towels which, notably, did not have dogs on them. Phil frowned at the non sequitur. “What?”

“I want a dog,” Chris repeated. “I never had a pet when I was a kid. I always wanted one.”

“So get a dog.”

Chris sighed. “Siobhan’s allergic.”

“It’s 2239; they have hypos for that now.”

“She says they make her feel worse.” Chris moved his feet from the spot they’d been resting on the coffee table to the futon, hugging his knees a little. “Wouldn’t want to leave the thing here on Earth anyway when I’m in space.”

“Tell you what,” Phil said. “When you and I get too old and crotchety to go into space, we’ll get you a dog.”

Chris smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “What about Siobhan?”

“You and I will share custody.”

Chris clinked his bottle to Phil’s. “Deal.”

~

“Did I tell you Erin’s wife is pregnant?”

“It took?!” Phil said excitedly. “I’m so happy for them!” Phil had yet to actually meet Chris’ best friend from high school, but he’d heard enough stories to adore her; by all accounts she was bright, funny,  _ emphatically _ gay, and didn’t take any of Chris’ shit. What wasn’t to love?

Chris grinned. “Don’t say anything just yet,” he said through a mouthful of pizza. “She’s not gonna be showing by the wedding and they obviously want to keep it under wraps.”

“Of course. That’s awesome.” Phil took a bite of his own pizza. “Did I tell you Tara’s pregnant again?”

_ “Again?”  _ Chris snorted. “How’d your brother take that?”

“He passed out.”

Chris nodded with a smug satisfaction identical to Phil’s. “Excellent.”

~

A character on the sitcom they were watching got caught with his pants down, literally and metaphorically, and what started as a general and fairly tame discussion of embarrassing moments wound up rapidly devolving into an  _ I-can-out-embarrass-you _ contest.

“When I was twelve, my grandpa caught me trying to put gel in my hair because I thought it would impress a girl I liked.”

“Gel?” Phil aimed to put his fingers in Chris’ hair, then thought twice. “In  _ this _ hair?”

“Yeah, that was pretty much Grandpa’s reaction, too.”

“Well, you were twelve. I can beat that. I attempted to tell an Andorian transport tech that I wished her a peaceful holiday, but I mispronounced something and accidentally invited her to an orgy.”

“When my first girlfriend and I tried to have sex, I didn’t know how to put the condom on and she literally  _ laughed me out of her house.” _

“I got high before a football game and made out with a guy behind the bleachers instead of marching onto the field with the rest of the band. I got caught by my mom, Charlie, the band director, and the boyfriend of the guy in question.”

“Erin and I broke into the Mojave Spaceport one night and I’m pretty sure the only reason we got away without getting arrested is because she flashed the security guard.”

“Sarah caught me with my hand under the sheets when I was fifteen.”

Chris paused, as if deep in thought, then nodded slowly. “Yeah, I can’t top that one.”

“Thank you.”

~

Phil saw Chris jolt a little in the corner of Phil’s eye. “What is it?”

Chris blinked at the screen, where they’d been watching a news program. “Nothing, I’m fine. I just...I think she looked like my mother.”

Phil grabbed the remote and replayed the last fifteen seconds. “Her? The blonde?”

“Yeah.”

Phil did a little bit of quick mental math. “I think she’s a little young to be your mom, Chris,” he said gently.

“No, I know it’s  _ not _ my mom,” Chris said quickly. “I said she  _ looks _ like my mom. I think. Maybe. I dunno.” He laughed derisively. “I haven’t seen her in almost twenty-five years; what do I know?”

Phil didn’t quite know what to say to that. Finally, he settled on, “Do you have pictures of her?”

Chris shook his head slowly. “No. Just memories, and they’re getting really foggy now. But Grandpa used to tell me I had her nose.” He smiled, that little eye-crinkly smile. “The rest of my face is apparently pure Pike, but I got a Beckett nose.”

Phil fondly remembered fixing that broken nose, the day he and Chris first talked to one another. “It’s a quality nose.”

Chris laughed.

~

Not long after sunset, the storm knocked the power out, just briefly, and Chris and Phil were left in darkness.

“Why don’t you have relationships?”

Phil choked on his beer, looking over to Chris’ silhouette. “Come again?”

“You date, you go out, you have fun, you have sex, but you don’t really have  _ relationships.  _ I can’t figure out why.” Chris paused, picking at the sausage on his pizza. “I dunno; I just figured, of the two of us, you’d be the one settling down first.”

“Why, because I’m the older one?”

“No, because you’re probably the better partner,” Chris said. “You’re so...you just...you don’t come with my baggage.”

“Oh, Chris. I’ve  _ got _ baggage,” Phil said quietly.

Phil heard, but did not see, Chris turn to face him. “Like what?”

_ Like being in love with my best friend. Like not being able to even fathom falling in love with someone else.  Like having acclimated to the constant dull ache of knowing that the only person I want is forever out of my reach. Yeah, that kills the possibility of a long-term relationship pretty comprehensively, Chrissy.  _ “Like…”

The lights flickered back on. The TV came back to life. Chris was still looking at Phil, his overly-wise grey-blue eyes bright with curiosity and concern.

Phil cleared his throat, sipped his drink, and turned back to the TV. Chris looked after him for a moment, then followed suit.

~

“How’d you know you were bi?”

The question was slightly slurred. Chris was on his back, legs up on the back of the futon, head down on the floor.

“How’d you know you were straight?” Phil countered.

“C’mon,” Chris said, kicking Phil, needing three tries to hit his mark. “You know what I mean.”

“Not really, no,” Phil said. “I just was. My first crush was on a girl, my second was on a boy. I never thought twice about it.” He paused, squinting down at Chris. “Why?”

Chris attempted to shrug in his upside-down position. “Dunno. Just curious, I guess.”

_ No, Phil,  _ he told that little blossom of hope firmly.  _ No. He’s tipsy and straight and engaged and that was the most innocuous possible question he could’ve asked. Those are not breadcrumbs and you will not hitch your wagon to them. _

“How’d your family take it?” Chris asked.

Phil smiled fondly. “My mom kissed me on the forehead and told me she loved me,” he answered. “And everybody else just sorta...found out. I never really told them. We never had some big talk about it. It was just understood. Like, Charlie’s serious, Lily’s feisty, Sarah’s rebellious, Phil’s queer as hell.”

Chris was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was much smaller. “Wonder how my family would’ve reacted if it’d been me.”

_ Probably not that well _ went unsaid, and Phil suddenly wanted to hug Chris, desperately.

“Well,” Chris recovered slightly, letting out a long breath. “Guess I don’t have to wonder.”

~

“‘re you sleepy?”

“Mmrph. No.”

“Mmkay. Me neither.”

“Jus’ restin’ my eyes.”

“‘Kay.”

~

_ “Morning alarm: Doctor Boyce. Morning alarm: Doctor Boyce.” _

Phil was already awake, still curled into a ball in bed, staring out the window as the sky turned crisp and blue outside. It looked like it would be a gorgeous mid-spring day, and Phil  _ really  _ did not want to get out of bed.

“Computer,” he rasped a little, “cancel alarm.”

_ Bee-boop. “Today is stardate 2239.125. In Standard, today is Sunday, May 5, 2239. The time is 0801 hours. Your agenda today consists of the following item: 1400 hours: Chris and Siobhan’s wedding.” _

Phil squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to hear it.

For more than eleven years, he’d tried to talk himself out of clinging to this blurry, indistinct, glittering possibility of  _ hope,  _ somehow only real in its blurriness but glittering all the same.  _ He’s straight. You’re not. Move on. Be grateful for what you’ve got.  _ But for some goddamn reason, he couldn’t let it go, couldn’t stop fantasizing about a  _ maybe,  _ just like he’d criticized that Andorian  _ shen _ for years ago. Intellectually knowing it was doomed to be fruitless didn’t seem to put a stop to that hope.

But hope has a shelf life, and today was its expiration date. Chris was getting married today.  _ Married. Forever.  _ Fact itself was putting that glittering hope under her bootheel and crushing it out of existence, and Phil was supposed to help facilitate it.

Burying all his broken hope under a thick layer of numb, he climbed out of bed and got in the shower.

Chris slept late. He was on the futon again. Siobhan had some highly traditional ideas about the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding, and so she and her crew had stayed at the Pike-McCullough house in Marin while Chris crashed at Phil’s in San Francisco. When he finally woke up, he slouched against the doorframe of the kitchen, hair a mess, nose red. He looked miserable and adorable. “Phil, I really don’t feel good.”

His voice was rough and nasal. “You sound awful,” Phil said. “C’mere, sit.”

Chris sat at the kitchen table and knocked his heavy head down against the wood. Phil ran a tricorder over him. Allergic response; no evidence of actual pathology, but enough to make one miserable. Chris sniffled pathetically.  _ And on his wedding day? That seems unnecessarily cruel. _

“All right, well, good news is, you’re not dying,” Phil pronounced. “Bad news is, it’s pretty bad hay fever and probably makes you  _ feel _ like you’re dying.” He paused. “Or  _ wish _ you were dying. I’m gonna give you an antihistamine hypo now and again before we leave - ” he paused, depressing the hypo into Chris’ jugular, “ - and then I’m gonna get you some coffee. Something warm will help.”

Phil set a mug of coffee in front of Chris, only five of his customary seven tablespoons of sugar stirred in. (He couldn’t help it. He was  _ trying _ to wean him.) Chris took one sip, winced, and stood up, clamoring for the sugar bowl. “Needs more sugar.”

_ Well, I tried.  _ Phil smiled slightly and rolled his eyes. “And though the enterprising work of Pakistani scientists eradicated diabetes worldwide in the late twenty-first century, it only took the work of one Californian man to bring it  _ roaring  _ back, all before his thirtieth birthday.”

Chris’ face did not react to Phil’s snark, but he did purposefully stir in an eighth tablespoon of sugar, just to irk Phil  _ that _ much more.

Phil turned his eyes heavenward and plucked a piece of bacon right out of the frying pan to hand to Chris. (Phil didn’t eat the stuff, but it was Chris’ favorite food, so of  _ course _ he kept it on hand.) “Eat,” he instructed.

Chris obediently took the strip of bacon.

“You feeling okay?” Phil asked. “I mean, I know you feel crappy  _ there,”  _ he said, gesturing to Chris’ head, “but...you freaking out at all?”

Chris swallowed and did not make eye contact with Phil. “Only when I think about it.”

_ That...that does not sound good.  _ “You sure about this?”

Chris just stared down into his coffee. “I love Siobhan.”

“Not really what I asked.”

“If I love her, I should marry her, shouldn’t I?” Chris still wasn’t making eye contact with him.

“You know how I feel about the word  _ should,”  _ Phil said, in the gentlest voice possible.

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?”

Phil was momentarily struck, and a little hurt, by the implications of that question. “No,” he rushed to say. “No, I’m not. I’m just trying to be sure that you’re doing what’s best for you. That’s all.”

Chris nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “I am,” he said, before lowering his voice measurably. “I think I am.”

This was the worst part about having principles, Phil thought. Because every single cell in his body was screaming at him to do something to stop this.  _ You don’t want to do this, Chris. You so clearly don’t want to do this. So don’t do it. Don’t get married. Don’t say words like “forever” if you’re not sure you mean them. Don’t do it. Don’t. Please, god, don’t.  _ But his principles, the iron-clad credo he’d stuck to for as long as he’d had the capacity for reason, held firm:  _ Respect freedom of choice. Autonomy is paramount. Love. No matter what.  _

Being so close with Chris was sometimes a byzantine maze of contradictions for which Phil had no road map.

They got ready in near-total silence. Chris was an introvert by nature, but this was quiet, even for him. He stared off into space a lot, while tying his shoe or putting on his rank insignia, his face pensive and somber. When he tried to close his jacket, his hands trembled so much that he couldn’t get the fastenings to align.

“Here,” Phil said softly, approaching him. “Let me help.”

Chris nodded, deflating a little, as Phil took the trim of his command gold jacket in hand and began to secure the hook-and-eye closures that lined the inside edges. Phil tried to keep his attention on the task at hand.  _ Hook through eye - I can smell his shampoo. Hook through eye - I can feel his breath. Hook through eye - he’s so warm. Hook through eye - don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this.  _ And when he reached Chris’ collar, his fingertips trying and failing to avoid the thudding pulse in Chris’ throat:  _ Hook through eye - I love you. _

“There,” Phil muttered, running his thumb along the gold braid. “All done.”

He felt, but could not make himself look up to see, Chris’ eyes on him. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find a center of gravity  _ away  _ from Chris, trying to block out how a sunbeam was streaking through the window and making that gold braid on the edge of Chris’ collar sparkle right where it met Phil’s fingertips.

_ Maybe the thing that really makes true love beautiful and ethereal is the ability to let it go. _

“Are you okay?” Chris asked quietly. Phil looked up and met his eyes, and there was a certain softness to them that was a little puzzling. Phil had never had any reason to believe that Chris knew his best friend was in love with him, but that expression - that gentle, open, understanding  _ (too understanding?)  _ expression - looked almost like Chris  _ knew _ that the answer Phil was about to give was a lie, and like he was forgiving Phil in advance for it.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Phil said. “Are you?”

Chris paused for a long, long time. “I’m as okay as I can be,” he finally said slowly.

Phil nodded, swallowing hard. “I guess that’s the most I can ask for right now.”

_ “Warning: Failure to depart in the next five minutes will result in tardiness to your first appointment.” _

“I guess we’ve gotta go,” Chris whispered.

Phil patted his collar gently, nodding. They prepared to separate, to walk out of one another’s personal space so they could make their way out of Phil’s place, but Phil grabbed Chris’ hand and pulled him back in.

“Hey,” he said lowly. He tried to smile; he knew it probably came out brittle. “Congratulations, Chris.”

Chris’ face softened, and he pulled Phil into a tight hug, so tight that Phil could feel Chris’ commendation medals digging into his chest even through the layers of their dress uniforms. When he spoke, his speech was halting, his voice tight.

“I don’t think I thank you enough. For being there for me. For supporting me. Even when I do some really stupid shit. Just...thank you, Phil. Thank you.”

Phil closed his eyes and took a long citrus-scented breath, hugging Chris back. “It’s one of the great privileges of my life.”

_ “Warning: Failure to depart in the next two minutes will result in tardiness to first appointment.” _

“We need to go, Chrissy.”

Chris nodded.

~

“Yeah, okay, I’m still confused about this,” Erin said from her perch on Phil’s kitchen counter. “Everybody and their dog knows that Chris doesn’t want kids. Surely his wife wasn’t left out of the loop?”

“No, she wasn’t,” Phil answered, scraping the leftover stir fry into a storage container. “Chris made it crystal clear to her early in their relationship that he didn’t want kids, but apparently she thought he’d change his mind once they got married.”

“Ah, yes,” Erin said waspishly, swirling her glass of chardonnay. “Thinking you can change your partner. A fine human tradition handed down over the generations. I dunno; I don’t think it’s  _ just _ that she wants a kid. I think it’s something deeper.”

Phil leaned back against the counter and frowned. “Like what?”

“Well, think about it,” Erin said. “She ostensibly married him because she loves him and wants to spend time with him, but she’s  _ not _ spending time with him, is she? Chris is in space at least eight months out of the year, and when he is, she’s in that house up in Marin all by herself, on a whole different continent from her family, which is a  _ lot _ for someone who doesn’t go into space, global society or not. She doesn’t have people. She wants her husband. That’s who she’s here for.”

Phil nodded in understanding. “You think it’s a way to keep him on Earth.”

“Exactly.” Erin shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.” 

“Well, you know her better than I do - ”

“Not by much.”

“- but that seems manipulative as hell. Probably not intentionally, but still.” Phil sighed. “God, Chris is a mess. I don’t think he’s slept in days. He’s tearing his hair out up there.”

“Of course he’s tearing his hair out. It’s Chris,” Erin said authoritatively. “You know him. He’s a self-contained study in dichotomy. Cool as a cucumber in public, a hopeless mess in private.”

Phil couldn’t exactly argue the point. “Anyway, he wants advice, and I’m kind of at a loss.”

“Uh, well, point of advice number one: Don’t agree to have a kid with her if you don’t want to.”

“Well, obviously,” Phil sighed. “But how do you tell  _ her _ that without jeopardizing the relationship? You’re the married one here.”

Erin shrugged again. “I would submit that a relationship that’s jeopardized by an increase in honesty probably isn’t a healthy one to be in at all.” She took a long sip of her wine. “On the other hand, I married a Betazoid. Brutal honesty is a required special skill in my household.”

Phil chuckled, drying his hands. “It’s almost 2200. What do we tell him?”

“The truth,” Erin said simply. “She’s the one who sprung this on him after  _ I do.  _ He made his position clear; she accepted it; now she doesn’t. Not Chris’ fault. He’s got nothing to feel bad about.”

“Right,” Phil said, “but he’s gonna.”

_ “Incoming vid comm: Lieutenant Commander Christopher Pike, USS Sagan.” _

Erin hopped off the counter and beelined to Phil’s terminal. “Well, hello handsome.”

“It’s so good to see you,” Phil heard Chris say. “Where’s Phil?”

“He’s coming,” Phil called. “He’s just getting more wine.” He sat on the futon next to Erin and smiled sympathetically at the terminal screen. “Hi, Chrissy. You’ve looked better.”

Oh, he looked  _ so  _ rough. He slumped forward a little when Phil came on the screen, putting his head in his hands. “Hi,” he said pathetically. “Help.”

Erin and Phil looked at each other, then Erin began to speak. “All right. Phil and I have had a tête-à-tête about your predicament, and the way we see it, her wanting kids right now has a twofold motivation.”

Phil nodded, then winced as Chris threw back some liquid antacid straight from the bottle. “Put that shit down before I have to come up there and manually disimpact you.”

Chris glared. “Do I want to know what that is?”

“No, but you’re gonna find out real quick if you don’t stop chugging antacids like they’re water.”

_ “Twofold,”  _ Erin interrupted in a very  _ can you two please discuss his bowels another time _ tone of voice. “In the first place, Siobhan really does want children.”

Chris scrubbed a hand over his face, raking it up into his hair. “I  _ don’t.” _

“I  _ know _ that, and you’ve told  _ her _ that, but I think she - in the grand ancient tradition of people thinking they can change their partners - thought she could change your mind.”

Chris winced.

“Now, you’ve said you’ll think about it, and that’s healthy and respectful; but thinking about it is clearly poisoning your life, which is...not good.”

“Obviously,” Chris rasped, keeping his head in his hands. It occurred to Phil that Chris was trying  _ so _ hard to be a good husband, searching for a compromise that was respectful of his wife’s diametrically opposite wishes, that it was making him sick. He wondered if Siobhan was going through the same turmoil. He kind of doubted it.

“I think there’s a deeper motivation here, though,” Erin continued, gentling her voice. “Chris, she’s lonely.”

Chris frowned at the screen. “Lonely?”

“Think about it, Chris,” Phil said. “She’s on the other side of the world from her entire family, all twenty-however many of them. Her husband’s in space. Hell, her brother’s up there, too, and he’s probably the only one she really knows who’s based in the Bay Area.”

Erin nodded. “I have a cordial enough relationship with her, but we’re hardly best friends. We don’t have much in common. We don’t hang out or spend time together as friends. We’re more acquaintances than anything.”

“She doesn’t have people here, Chris,” Phil continued. “Her people is  _ you,  _ and you’re in space.”

Chris frowned at the screen disbelievingly. “So...what, she wants to have a kid for the  _ company?” _

“No,” Erin clarified as delicately as she could, “but I think she thinks that having a pregnant wife, and then a kid or two, might motivate  _ you _ to stay on Earth more.”

Phil watched as Chris’ wide grey-blue eyes broke into pieces, as the complicated reality of the situation set in. He turned his head, looking out one of his windows at the stars, and knocked back the bottle of antacid again. “How the fuck do I fix this?” he rasped.

Erin and Phil looked at one another again. Erin nodded in Phil’s direction, wordlessly urging him to speak.

“Chris, look at yourself. Even  _ considering _ this possibility is making you miserable. You’ve gotta be honest with Siobhan, and firm about it, too. That’s gonna upset her, I know, and that sucks, but it’s a hell of a lot better than you asking how the fuck to fix this ten years from now with a couple of kids in tow.”

Chris paled. “God.”

“I think it’s important to point out,” Erin interjected, “that Siobhan changed the rules of engagement here, not you. If you made your position on kids as clear to her as Phil told me you did, then you have nothing to feel bad about in denying her that request.”

“Except the fact that it’s going to completely break my wife’s heart,” Chris muttered. He put his head in his hands. “I married her in the first place because I didn’t want to break her heart, and now I’ve gotta break it anyway.”

Erin kept her eyes steady on the screen. “She married you knowing you weren’t on the same page she was. You’re not breaking her heart. She broke her own.”

Phil looked at Chris, so panicky, so pained, so exhausted, and he wished  _ badly _ for a way to reach across the sectors and hug him. Lacking that, he went into doctor mode. “When’s the last time you slept, Chrissy?”

Chris’ shoulders shook with a pseudo-laugh. “Uh, when did I comm you in a panic? Monday?”

“Jesus.” Phil sighed. “You need some rest.”

“I  _ know,  _ Phil,” Chris snapped. “But I  _ can’t.  _ And I can’t go to medbay for a sedative; it’ll show up on my pharm report and they’ll pull me from the conn and I’ll go even  _ crazier _ if I’m not working.”

“Okay, okay, take a breath,” Phil said, not rising to the bait.

Chris rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry. God, I should  _ not _ be snapping at you guys.”

“I think you’ve got a pretty good excuse,” Erin interjected kindly.

Phil smiled. “You mind if I switch over to Dr. Boyce now?”

“By all means.”

“Melatonin. Replicate two five-milligram tabs. Take one, and then if you still can’t sleep after an hour or two, take the other. It’s technically a hormone, but Med puts it under the same header as vitamins and other supplements, so it won’t show up on your report, and you won’t get pulled from duty.”

Chris sighed. “Bless you.”

“Will you go do that now?” Erin asked in a voice that brokered no argument. “And then will you go to bed and sleep and not think about this bullshit for at least twelve hours?”

Chris smiled weakly and saluted. “Yes ma’am.”

She laughed. “Comm tomorrow.”

“Will do,” Chris said. “Night, guys.”

“Night, Chrissy,” Phil said. Chris’ image faded away, and Phil let his eyes re-adjust to the absence of light.

Erin sighed next to him. “Oh, Christopher. So smart. So pretty. Head  _ so _ far up his own ass.”

Phil couldn’t help but snort. “You think they’re gonna be okay?”

“Okay? Sure. Together? Nope,” she said, popping the  _ p _ a little bit. “But then again, I didn’t think they’d make it to the altar, so what do I know?”

~

Phil didn’t drink a lot. Once or twice a week, if that. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been quantifiably tipsy, and he didn’t think he’d ever been full-on  _ drunk.  _ But a couple bottles of wine, the company of Erin Lowe, and stories about Chris’ adolescence seemed to push him pretty close to that boundary.

“So I’m trying to talk Chris’ stupid ass away from Tango and toward one of the other horses that’s, you know,  _ not insane, _ but you know how he gets when he’s set on something. So of course, he goes up to Tango anyway, and she goes batshit crazy, because she  _ is.  _ I’m trying to figure out how to do damage control here, but Chris just smiles that smile - you know the one - and he’s like, ‘I  _ like _ her!’ I tell him she’s just a cranky old bitch, and he just says, ‘She’s not  _ cranky,  _ she’s  _ feisty.’ _ Like they have this understanding after a ten-second interaction. And for some reason, Tango, the horse who hates everyone, just totally falls in love with him.” Erin paused and snorted. “Well. In  _ like _ with him. She’d still nip at him if he crossed her. And she was  _ pissed _ when he left for Starfleet.”

Phil giggled into his wine glass. “He’s got interesting taste in women.”

“Poor sap.”

Phil smiled. He’d been right - he loved Erin. He felt so comfortable with her, so loose - okay, yeah, that was probably booze - that he felt safe asking a question he’d  _ never _ have asked a  _ soul _ if he was sober.

“Can I ask you something?”

Erin looked at him. “Shoot.”

Phil swallowed and licked his lips. “It’s about Chris.”

“I gathered that, yes.”

Okay, he felt  _ safe _ asking the question; that didn’t mean he knew  _ how _ to ask it. “So...well...you and Chris dated, right?”

Erin nodded. “Briefly. Before I had to woman up and tell him he had too much Y chromosome for my taste.”

“Right. Right.” Phil stared at his hands, flexing his fingers. “So...I wondered...wanted to ask...and, you know, not like I can ask anybody else, um…”

In his periphery, he saw Erin narrow her eyes the tiniest bit. “Phil?” she said, her tone leading.

Phil chugged wine that was meant to be sipped - liquid courage - and forced the words out. “Is he a good kisser?”

Erin didn’t answer for a long moment. When Phil finally chanced a glance up at her, she was smiling this self-satisfied smile, her brown eyes twinkling. “I knew it.”

Phil grimaced.  _ “God.” _

“Oh, Phil,” Erin sighed, looping an arm around him, “who’s the poor sap now?”

Phil whimpered, tossing his head back pathetically.

“So, how long has that question been burning a hole in your brain?”

Phil glared at her. “I asked you first.”

“And I’ll answer, but first, I want intel.” She crossed her legs butterfly-style and leaned in, and for a heartbeat, she looked eerily like Sarah. “C’mon, Phil. I live in a Betazoid community; there’s no secret-telling gossip where everybody reads everybody else’s minds.”

Phil felt his face burning. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. “What was the question?”

“How long have you been thinking about smooching Chrissykins?”

“Every hour of every day since I met him almost twelve years ago.” He groaned pathetically. “Did I  _ really _ just admit to that? Please note that I cannot be held accountable for things said after one in the morning, especially post-wine.” He miserably turned to Erin. “Not that it isn’t true, because it is.”

“Really?” Erin asked softly. “Since...forever?”

Phil nodded. “Really since forever.”

Erin’s face wasn’t teasing anymore. It was soft and sympathetic. “Oh, Phil. I’m sorry.” She hugged him a little closer with the arm around his shoulder. “I feel like an asshole. I kind of assumed it was a recent-ish little crush that would go away on its own, but…”

Phil nodded. “Yeah, it’s not going away on its own.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

Phil shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said. “Queer right of passage, right? We all fall for a hetero at least once.”

Erin smiled sadly. “I suppose so.” She squeezed his shoulder, and they were quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “Yes.”

Phil looked at her. “Hmm?”

“Yes,” Erin repeated. “Chris is a good kisser. Or he was, when we were sixteen. I can’t speak to his kissing prowess at twenty-nine, but I surmise he’s improved with experience.”

Phil smiled and nodded, but he honestly wasn’t sure if that answer made him feel better or worse.

“Can I tell you another secret?”

“Sure, let’s make it even,” Phil said blithely.

Erin smiled wickedly, holding her wine glass aloft and swirling it. “Well. Even before I was dating him? I  _ kind of  _ assumed that Chris Pike was the kind of guy who, shall we say, thought about penises in the dark.” She paused, looking at Phil with a raised eyebrow. “Once or twice, at least.”

Phil fumbled around for an emotional reaction to that statement, then settled on cracking up.


	13. Chapter 13

It was a bad shift.

Phil had walked into the Starfleet Medical Central Hospital at just before 0700, coffee in hand, to a veritable shitshow. Nurses were fast-walking into each other, doctors and techs were shouting requests for gurneys and ORs and hypos, and the emergency department lobby was standing room only. Looking around in dismay, he spotted his very favorite nurse from labor and delivery rummaging around in an equipment cabinet.

“Morning, Martha,” he said as mildly as he could. “What the hell’s happening here?”

Martha didn’t look up or even pause in her search. “It’s a full moon in the ED, that’s what. _There_ it is!” She grabbed an old-fashioned IV line from the very back of the cabinet and turned to face Phil. “Shuttle crash a few hours ago. A couple of dumbass freshmen and their even dumber friends nabbed one and took it for a joyride. Media and JAG are here, too, thanks to the idiots in red. Also, the _plomeek_ apparently took a turn shortly before sixteen hundred officers and cadets ate it for lunch, with predictable GI results - hence this.” She held the IV tubing aloft. “And, of course, your usual Tuesday morning assortment of shortness of breath, abdominal pain, and _‘Doc it itches real bad down there.’”_

Phil sighed. That was all he needed to hear to know that he wasn’t setting foot on L&D today.

He shuffled from curtain to curtain, operating room to operating room, mending broken bones, repairing punctured lungs, administering antiemetic hypos left and right, and breathing through his mouth. The general badness of the day did not stop once the cacophony of the shuttle crash and the spoiled _plomeek_ had settled down; after that, Phil’s day included such highlights as arranging a psych admit for a suicidal officer, delicately negotiating a way out of providing a kumaricet addict the opiate he definitely did not need, consoling a hysterical new mother after her baby had a febrile seizure, telling someone who definitely did not want to be pregnant that she was, and telling a couple who desperately _did_ want to be pregnant that they weren’t anymore. He was supposed to be off at 1900 hours, but wound up leaving at 2130, tired and cranky and fresh out of energy to put toward emotional labor. He checked his comm on the way home; there was a missed call from his mom, one from Dr. April, and two relatively recent ones from Chris.

He rolled his neck as he arrived back home at the small bungalow he’d moved into a few months before, mentally preparing to satiate his hunger with scrambled eggs or something equally fast and idiot-proof before he collapsed into bed. As he approached his front door, though, he saw a familiar figure curled up on the little porch swing.

“Chris?”

Chris looked up. “Hey.” His voice sounded nasal. He swung his legs around so they dangled from the swing, and Phil could see the outline of the duffel bag he’d brought with him to the Academy scrunched up next to him.

_Sometimes, when you think you can’t give any more of yourself, you find an unexpected reserve._

Phil moved closer and sat next to him on the swing. “What’s going on?”

Chris laughed wetly. “Guess you didn’t get my messages.”

Phil shook his head. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t see them until I was on my way home.”

“It’s okay.” Chris swallowed audibly. “Can I crash on the futon again?”

“Of course,” Phil answered, before repeating, “What’s going on?”

Finally, Chris looked up and made eye contact. His eyes were red-rimmed, making the blue that much more electric. “Siobhan’s filing for divorce.”

Phil’s heart sank. “Oh, god.”

Chris nodded. “Yeah.” He shrugged in a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “It’s for the best, you know? We’ll both get what we want. She can find somebody who wants kids, and I don’t have to give up my career. We’ll be happier this way. It’ll be fine. It’s okay.”

“Oh, Chris. I’m so sorry.” Phil put his hand on Chris’ back, rubbing in small circles.

Chris nodded, his jaw tremulous with the effort it took to stop from breaking down again. “It’s for the best,” he repeated weakly, before silent sobs overtook him.

Phil pulled Chris in and hugged him, continuing to rub his back, letting him cry. “I know, Chrissy,” he murmured. “I know. It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

After a few long minutes, Chris hiccupped, wiped his eyes, and sat up. “Sorry.”

Phil shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he soothed. “What can I do? What else do you need?”

Chris sighed. “I don’t know yet. Just a place to stay, for now. Something to eat. I mean, I guess I need to find a lawyer now, and some help moving out, but...not tonight.”

“You got it,” Phil said softly. “All of the above.”

Chris leaned his head on Phil’s shoulder. “I’m _tired,_ Phil.”

Phil squeezed Chris slightly. “C’mon, then. Let’s get you some rest.”

Chris was hard asleep on the futon, still in his clothes, before Phil finished making him dinner. Phil covered him over with a blanket and pecked him gently on the temple. Chris didn’t even stir.

~

For two men who hadn’t actually lived together for several years, Phil and Chris settled back into a daily routine remarkably quickly. Chris applied for a leave of absence from the Sagan, and then for an outright transfer of duty, wisely recognizing that serving alongside his now-ex-brother-in-law would be the tiniest bit awkward. Phil worked twelve-hour day shifts four days a week, alternating between labor and delivery and the emergency room. While Phil was at the hospital, Chris did menial household work - washing dishes, updating replicator software, doing laundry. When Phil got home, they ate dinner and talked until one of them fell asleep. They talked a lot about Chris’ transfer request, Phil’s workdays, Chris’ divorce lawyer’s hair, what was for dinner, and what was on TV. They almost never talked about Siobhan, and when they did, Chris initiated it, usually out of the blue.

“Should I have just done it?” he asked on one such night.

Phil turned to him. “Done what?”

“Given in,” Chris said. “Had a kid with her.”

_Hell no_ sprung to Phil’s lips, but he swallowed it back, because he knew there was more to the question. “Why didn’t you want to have a kid with her?”

Chris frowned. “You know why.”

“I do,” Phil affirmed. “Tell me anyway.”

Chris sighed. “Because I’d be a shitty father. I don’t have the patience or the temperament or the comfort with children for it. My parents didn’t know how to be parents when they had me, and my childhood was pretty screwed up as a result. Children deserve parents who _want_ them, and who make it clear that they are wanted. I didn’t get that. And I wouldn’t be able to do that honestly.”

Phil nodded. “So your decision to not have kids is a decision to spare a hypothetical child from some of the pain that you went through.”

Chris looked thoughtful at that. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, I guess so. God, I _loved_ being married, though. It was nice...” he paused, looking to the side. “It was nice to come home to somebody again.”

Now _that_ hurt Phil’s heart. “I know, Chris. Look, none of the options you were presented with in this case were unambiguously good ones.” Phil shrugged sympathetically. “I guess that’s true for both of you, really. And I know that sucks. But frankly, decisions about whether or not to reproduce are some of the most private and complicated ones anyone can make, and as shitty as this is for you to go through, I think you made the right decision. Personally, I’m never going to argue with a choice that spares someone unnecessary pain. Especially a child.”

“What about Siobhan’s unnecessary pain?” Chris countered.

“Sure. But what about _yours?”_ Phil answered immediately. “You told Siobhan, what, a _week_ into knowing her that you didn’t want kids? She knew this all along, Chris. She knew when you started dating, when you started sleeping together, on your wedding day, and on that day back in August that she commed you and mentioned wanting a baby. You’ve been a physical and psychological wreck ever since then, and that’s unnecessary pain that _she_ could have spared _you.”_ Phil shook his head sadly. “I’m certainly not saying she’s a bad person; I know you still love her and that I am in no way unbiased, but _dammit,_ I can’t _not_ think that she holds more of the blame here than you do, by a long shot.”

Chris swallowed, leaning his head back. “Maybe it was doomed from the start.”

Phil privately, but vehemently agreed. “Maybe so, but I can’t see what you could’ve done to change that.”

There was a long pause. Then, Chris’ mouth quirked into a little smile. “Well,” he said dryly, “not popping the question seconds after sex would’ve probably been a good start.”

Phil snorted, _cheers_ ing his water glass against Chris’ tea. “Live and learn.”

~

Phil was in the middle of grocery shopping when he realized he’d been remiss in signing off on some obscure compliance documentation to Dr. April, now the sitting Surgeon General and a woman who would show him no mercy if he didn’t get his ass over there and deal with this _tout de suite._ Abandoning his paprika comparison-shop, he hurried over to her office at Medical.

As he was speed-walking down the hall to her office, determined to get there before she left for the day, he spotted a petite, dark-haired woman in a gold command tunic walking toward him. She was far shorter than he was, but paradoxically, she moved faster than he did, and she slipped into Dr. April’s office before Phil got there. He waited around the corner, catching his breath a little, trying to gauge if this was a visit he could interrupt for thirty seconds.

“Hello there, Doctor,” an unfamiliar voice said - ostensibly the command woman with the inexplicably fast gait.

There was a beat. _“Natalie Nguyen,”_ Dr. April’s voice said fondly. “As I live and breathe. What the hell are you doing planetside, child? Last I heard, you were out terrorizing the Beta Quadrant.”

“See, that’s what you get when you don’t have me under foot all day,” the unfamiliar voice - _Nguyen? -_ said. “The Beta Quadrant is _so_ last year. No, we had to make an Earth run for a personnel dump. Figured I’d leave her up in Spacedock and let us all take a little leave.”

“Even you?” Dr. April’s voice said teasingly.

“You really think Nari would’ve let me get away with not seeing her? Please.”

Dr. April laughed. “A personnel dump, you said? Who are you losing?”

“Who am I _not_ losing?” Nguyen said on a grumpy sigh. “Couple of maintenance techs, my CTO, a few engineering staff, a solid _half_ of Stellar Cartography, one of my pilots. I’m filling in the blanks, but those higher positions are always a bitch to fill. I also need a couple new med officers.”

“CMO?”

“No, thank Christ,” Nguyen muttered, “but I desperately need at least an associate doc and a nurse. I was looking through the roster and came across someone who piqued my interest. I think he’s one of yours.”

A pause. Dr. April’s fond voice. “Phil Boyce.”

The hairs on Phil’s neck prickled.

“Yeah. Is he good?”

“He’s brilliant,” Dr. April affirmed. “And your people will adore him. Astounding bedside manner.” Phil flushed slightly. “Just know, if you take Boyce, you’re gonna have to take Pike, too.”

Phil jolted slightly.

“Pike?” Nguyen’s voice muttered. Phil heard a couple of _beeps_ on a PADD. “Oh, Christopher? Yeah, I was looking at him, too. What’s their deal? Are they a couple?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Dr. April said cryptically, and Phil _very much_ wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “If nothing else, they’re the most inseparable best friends you’ve ever seen; prying them apart would make both their lives hell, which would, in turn, make _your_ life hell.” Phil couldn’t see into the room, but he could almost _hear_ Dr. April’s lips quirk up into a smile. “Be warned, though, it can be damn difficult to hold a conversation with the pair of them. With the inside jokes and the shared memories and that way they can communicate without words, you need a glossary sometimes.”

“Huh. Sounds like you and Bob,” Nguyen said.

“Or you and Nari,” Dr. April replied. “Like I said, _depends on who you ask.”_

Nguyen was quiet for a moment. “His tactics background is impressive,” she mumbled. “And I _do_ need a CTO...yeah. Yeah, all right. You win, Sarah. I’ll take the matched set.”

“A fine selection, Captain.”

~

“Your quarters are adjoining on deck seven,” Lieutenant Zoss was telling them in her precise voice, pointing the deck out on a schematic on the wall of the USS Vaughan, Chris and Phil’s new home for the foreseeable future. “Dr. Pike, you’re in cabin 709; Dr. Boyce, cabin 711. This will separate you from most of the senior staff, Dr. Pike; most of us are up on deck three, but Captain Nguyen said she had it on good authority that you and the doctor were not to be separated under penalty of death or dismemberment.”

Her lips curled into a sarcastic smile. Phil laughed gently, knowing exactly who that _good authority_ was. Chris smiled and blushed beet red. “I’m sure it’ll be just fine, Lieutenant.”

Zoss grinned and returned to the schematic. “Medbay’s on six, mess hall’s on two, and main engineering spans decks nine and ten. Nav array’s on four, shuttlebay’s on five, and main transporter rooms are on eleven and twelve. No one uses the latter because it’s allegedly haunted. I’m not saying I concur.” She turned to them again, her dark pageboy swinging about her shoulders. “The Captain’s always on Alpha and usually at least part of Beta shift, until either Commander Zapata convinces her to let him take over for a few hours or Dr. Levin shows up and physically removes her from the bridge. Zapata usually finishes Beta, and Gamma’s got a rotating cast of COs, myself included.” She nodded at Chris. “You’ll probably get recruited for that, too. Fair warning. Anyway, the Captain’s relieved you both of duty for tomorrow to get oriented to your new surroundings. Questions?”

Chris shook his head. “I think we’re good.”

“Think you can find the turbolift on your own?”

“We’ll leave breadcrumbs just in case,” Phil joked.

Zoss rolled her eyes fondly as she waved them off to bed, and Phil’s stomach did a minor backflip. Granted, they’d only met Laura Zoss a couple of hours before, but he already _adored_ her. She was brilliant, funny, passionate, and kind, and as an added bonus, _heartbreakingly_ lovely. She would’ve been exactly Phil’s type back in the day, before his type got narrowed down to slim-hipped, cleft-chinned blonds. She was also exactly _Chris’_ type, in virtually every way - but while Chris was perfectly friendly with her, he definitely wasn’t flirting the way Phil had expected him to.

Then again, Phil had based that expectation on pre-divorce Chris. Things had obviously evolved.

_Update your rubrics for anticipation periodically._

After a late dinner in Chris’ quarters, Phil went back to his own and commed home. Mom smiled and shook her head at Phil with that gentle concern exclusive to mothers. “You sure you’re gonna be okay, honey?”

Phil grinned. “I’m gonna be fine,” he assured her. “I’m with good people up here. The Vaughan is a tight ship. We’re safe.”

“Yeah, but you’re in _space,_ baby,” Mom said on a sigh. He watched as her fingertips came up and touched the screen. “You’re so far away.”

Phil’s heart clenched a little. He tried as hard as he could to get back home to see his family as often as he could manage it, but it was hit or miss, and he _ached_ for their company. “It’s gonna be okay, Mom,” he said gently. “I’ll come back in one piece. Promise.” Something in Phil’s mind immediately questioned his having made that specific promise. He whacked that something repeatedly with a stick.

“You damn well better,” Mom said sternly. “And bring the fifth Boyce child home safe, too.”

“He’s right next door to me,” Phil said. “I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“No more dumbass marriages,” she proclaimed. A pause. “Unless it’s to you.”

_“Mom.”_

Mom grinned, kissing her fingertips and pressing them to the screen. “I love you, sweet prince.”

Phil did likewise. “Love you more. I’ll comm as soon as I can.”

~

The little senior-staff-plus-Phil get-together to celebrate Chris’ promotion to full commander was still going on at 0230 when Phil’s comm chimed. _“Hirono to Boyce.”_

Phil stepped away from the table. “Boyce here, Beth. What’s up?”

_“Sorry to interrupt your festivities, but Yeoman Hoyt just showed up in labor. She’s doing pretty well so far, but this strip’s all over the place - way crazy variability. I need your eyes.”_

Yeah, that did not sound good. “Sit tight, I’m on my way. Boyce out.” He put a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “I gotta go play baby catcher.”

Chris stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout, one that betrayed how tipsy he’d gotten. “Oh, _fine,”_ he sighed theatrically, winking at Phil right after he said it.

“Drama queen,” Phil said fondly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be good, _Commander.”_

Over the course of the next few hours in medbay, Yeoman Hoyt’s “crazy variable strip” devolved into unmistakable signs of _holy shit this baby’s in trouble move now,_ and Phil delivered her son in a crash c-section just before five o’clock that morning. “One day,” he muttered under his breath, “we’re gonna just be able to beam the kid out of there.”

The baby needed stat resuscitation and oxygen therapy; the yeoman herself needed blood products. It was the kind of ugly mess that made Phil marvel that so damn many people made it past birth, with how very sideways sometimes things went. He was still finishing up the inevitable paperwork when Alpha shift started up at 0800.

“Morning, Dr. Levin,” he said sleepily, vacating her chair in the practitioner’s office.

The CMO was a generally chipper person, but even she did not typically burst into giggles when she laid eyes on Phil as she did right then.

“What?” Phil asked.

“You haven’t heard?” Dr. Levin laughed.

“No, I’ve been here all night. Heard what?”

She set her coffee cup down and leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s all over the damn ship. Apparently our newest commander and our chief pilot - how shall I put this delicately? - spent their evening thoroughly testing the durability of Starfleet-issue mattresses.” She wiggled her eyebrows to underscore the point.

Phil gaped for a moment, and when he did manage to relocate his voice, it sounded like an insect on helium. _“What?!”_

“I don’t claim to know the intimate details,” Dr. Levin said, holding her hands up. “But I can testify to the truth of the statement. As can everyone else with quarters on deck three. Not exactly shy between the sheets, is he?”

Phil very deliberately ignored _that_ question. “Chris...slept with _Laura,”_ he clarified slowly.

Dr. Levin nodded, just as slowly.

Phil winced spectacularly. “Oh, _god.”_

~

“Phil!”

Phil stopped mid-stride on the way to his cabin and turned. Laura Zoss was trotting toward him, pageboy bobbing.

“Hey, Laura,” he said as neutrally as possible.

She took him by the elbow and herded him into a pocket of hallway rarely used by other officers. “Look, I know you know, and I have to tell you I’m _sorry,_ Phil, I’m _so_ sorry. It was late and we’d had _way_ too many vodka sodas and we _never_ would’ve done anything like that if we hadn’t been drunk, but an explanation is not an excuse, and I’m _sorry.”_

Phil frowned. “Laura, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently.

“Yeah, but I knew better,” she sighed. “I know how you feel about him.”

Phil colored, but didn’t break eye contact. “So? That doesn’t mean I have a claim on him. It’s not like you took my place in line or something. I _have_ no place in that line.” He put his hand on her shoulder and smiled at her. “Put away the guilt, hmm?”

“I’m still sorry.”

_When someone offers you honest contrition for a wrong, be gracious and accept it._

“You don’t have to be, but if it makes you feel better, I accept.”

Laura smiled grimly and nodded.

“How are you doing? I heard it’s circling the ship at warp.”

“Me? I’m fine. Chris might be another story. He’s up on the bridge trying to will himself into invisibility. I think you and the Captain are the only people he wouldn’t openly snarl at right now.”

“Great,” Phil sighed. He let Laura head back to the bridge, headed to his own cabin for a couple hours of sleep, and tried to mentally prepare for dealing with a Chris so acutely embarrassed it was beyond articulation.

~

“So you’re just never gonna use her name again?” Phil asked. Three days had passed since Chris and Laura’s high-alcohol, high-volume dalliance, and Chris and Phil were now eating dinner in Phil’s quarters. Well, _Phil_ was eating dinner. Chris was mostly burying his head in his hands over his asparagus. “That’s your solution? _That’s_ what a doctorate in strategy and tactics gets you?”

“Phil, people on _three goddamn decks_ heard me yelling her name in a context I’d rather they forget,” he said miserably. “There are eight hundred and nine people on this ship and _every one of them_ is going to snicker every time they hear her name in my voice. As far as I’m concerned, Number One, as she will henceforth be known, no longer _has_ a first name.”

Phil shook his head. _“Il est curieux,”_ he muttered into his water glass.

Chris frowned. “Huh?”

Phil smiled a little smile. “It roughly means _he is peculiar,”_ he clarified. “Something my parents used to say about me when I was little.” He smirked, wrinkling his nose a little. “Of course, they hadn’t met you yet.”

“Fuck off,” Chris said without malice. “Gently. With purpose.”

Phil rolled his eyes. _When fucking off, do so gently and with purpose._


	14. Chapter 14

Phil frowned deeply, checking the chronometer again. He was in Chris’ quarters, reclining on his sofa, per their permanent open door policy. He’d been expecting Chris around 2100 for their usual drinks-dessert-shooting the breeze session, but Chris was tardy. In and of itself, that wasn’t particularly concerning; he was a bridge officer and shit happened, and Phil had used the time to finish a letter to Charlie, review a new edition of the Journal of the Federation Medical Society, and go back to his quarters and separate his laundry. But when it was nearly 2200 and Chris had neither materialized nor called, Phil began to worry.

“Boyce to Pike,” he said into his comm. His voice echoed; Chris’ comm sat untouched on his desk.  _ Now that’s weird.  _ “Computer, locate Commander Pike.”

_ “Commander Pike is in the main navigational array, deck four.” _

_ That fucking workaholic.  _ “Computer, how long has Commander Pike been on duty?”

_ “Commander Pike has been on duty for sixteen hours, twelve minutes.” _

“What?! What the hell’s he doing on duty for that long?”

_ “Please restate your query.” _

“Never mind.” He went to Chris’ wall comm and found the nav array’s frequency. “Boyce to Pike.”

It took a few interminably long seconds.  _ “Pike.”  _

_ Well, good evening to you, too.  _ “What the hell are you doing, Christopher? The computer says you’ve been on duty for sixteen hours.”

_ “It does?”  _

“Don’t make me find you and sedate your ass,” Phil mildly threatened.

_ “Sorry. Guess I just got distracted.” _

Okay, yeah, Chris did  _ not _ sound like himself. “Chris? You okay?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.  _ “I’m on my way to bed now, Phil. Pike out.” _

The connection closed. It did not escape Phil’s attention that Chris had not answered the question. Puzzled and worried, he sank into Chris’ desk chair, inadvertently knocking his elbow against the touchpad of his terminal, waking the screen up.

_ Brookside Residential Hospital  
_ _ Bakersfield, California _

Oh, god.

_ Next of kin. Emily C. Beckett. Tuesday. 54 years. Carcinoma, ovarian. Remains. Cremated. _

“Oh, Chrissy,” Phil whispered. Chris was in for some very complex and very fragile grief, and if Phil could gauge the timbre of his voice over the comm as well as he thought, the earliest stages of that grief were already proving hellish.

_ Don’t just ask someone how you can help and leave it at that. If you know what they need, just do it. _

“Computer, locate Captain Nguyen.”

~

“Come on in.”

Phil entered the captain’s ready room, where Natalie Nguyen sat at a clear aluminum desk with a huge mug of oolong tea and various PADDs strewn about. His eye caught a photo on her desk of the Captain and another petite, Asian-appearing woman in tailored suits, arms wrapped tightly around one another.

“Dr. Boyce,” Nguyen greeted pleasantly. 

Phil gave a small smile and stood at parade rest. “I apologize for the lateness of my visit.”

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” she brushed off. “You’re a hell of a lot better than Alejandro yelling at me to go to sleep or Faye wielding a sedative.” She set her PADD to the side and took a sip of her tea. “What brings you up to deck one?”

Phil took a deep breath. “Commander Pike’s mother has died.”

Nguyen closed her eyes and bent her head. “Shit,” she intoned solemnly. “How’s he doing?”

Phil swallowed tightly. “Hard to say. His relationship with his mother is…” He fumbled for the best word. “...complicated, to put it delicately.”

Nguyen shook her head. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do for him?”

“Actually, yes,” Phil answered. “Captain, the Vaughan does not have a ship’s counselor aboard. My understanding is that, when no counselor is present, the medical officer with the greatest amount of psychology training is considered  _ de facto _ counselor. That’s me. As such, I would like to request bereavement leave for Commander Pike, effective immediately, so he can return to Earth and attend to his mother’s affairs.”

It was kind of a long shot, so Phil was a little surprised when Nguyen didn’t even blink or pause. “Granted.”

“Thank you, Captain.”  _ Now to take an even longer shot.  _ “Respectfully, I would also like to request personal leave for myself, effective immediately. I should have adequate time off in reserve.”

A soft smile crossed Nguyen’s face - a striking gesture for such an intimidating, take-no-shit kind of woman. “You’re gonna go home with him,” she said. “Help him say goodbye to his mother.”

Phil felt himself flush and broke eye contact for just a moment, pursing his lips. “He’s my best friend,” he said softly. “He can’t do this alone.”

Nguyen’s smile grew. Phil saw her eyes flick ever so briefly over to the picture he’d seen before, of her with the other woman in their suits, before turned to a PADD on her desk and punched a couple commands in. “Leave granted. Shuttlecraft Dignity is all yours. Be warned, though, maintenance is taking all six shuttlecraft offline at 2300 for warp matrix realignment, so move quickly if you want to go tonight.”

Phil let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Thank you, Captain.”

“He’s pretty damn lucky,” she said, “to have you by his side.

Phil smiled slightly and nodded once. “He’s my best friend,” he repeated.

“May we all be graced with a best friend like you,” Nguyen said kindly. “Dismissed.”

Phil left the ready room, headed back to his quarters, and haphazardly packed a bag before he headed next door. Chris had locked his quarters, open door policy be damned, so Phil chimed for entrance. Again. A third time. Nothing.

_ Time to break out the big guns.  _ “Computer, override door lock. Medical authorization Boyce-kappa-one-six.”

The doors parted, revealing darkened quarters; the only light came from the eerie glow of the replicator. Phil couldn’t see Chris right away. “Chris?” he called. “Chris?” He moved into the bedroom; Chris was in a t-shirt and shorts, on his back, just staring at the ceiling in what looked very much like shock.

“Chris?” Phil tried again, coming into his field of vision.

Chris blinked. “How’d you get in here?” he asked thickly.

_ Oh, Christopher.  _ “Medical override,” Phil answered, moving to Chris’ closet and pulling down a duffel from the top shelf. “C’mon, get dressed.”

Chris complied, rising zombie-like from his bed and putting on civvies. Phil kept packing Chris’ bag -  _ clothes, PADDs, hairbrush, toothbrush, razor, shampoo, shoes, jacket - wait, no, does he need a jacket in October in the desert? - eh, what the hell, bring it.  _ In his periphery, he looked over; Chris seemed to be struggling to remember how to button a civilian shirt, moving so slowly Phil could almost see the individual synapses firing. “You ready?” he asked once Chris was dressed.

“Where are we going?” Chris asked.

“Well, first we’re going to the shuttlebay, and then we’re going to Mojave.”

Chris blinked slowly. There went those synapses again. “But...what…”

Phil wrapped an arm around Chris’ shoulders, gently holding his near arm, like he’d do if he was escorting a patient unsteady on their feet. “C’mon. Either we launch in ten or we’ve gotta wait two hours for maintenance to do their thing.”

They got in the lift, rode up two decks, and got out before Chris spoke again. “How’d you find out?”

It was his first acknowledgement of what had happened. Phil put his arm around Chris again. “I can deliver a baby, correct a deviated fetal spinal column, and repair a shredded pericardium all before lunch. You think I can’t hack into my best friend’s message system?” It was a crappy borderline joke, designed to lighten the mood a little. Phil couldn’t really tell if it had worked. When they entered the Dignity, Phil dropped their bags as Chris made his way to the left hand seat. “Are you with it enough to fly, or do you want me to?” Phil asked.

“Phil, why are you doing this?” Chris asked, looking up at him with eyes so bright and confused and sad and angry and scared and screaming  _ please help me _ that it took Phil’s breath away. He tried to look back steadily, like he had when his mom had given birth to Lily in their bathtub, trying to be steady, to be a point of clarity as Chris’ world ran in drips and smudges around him.

“Because you need me to,” he answered simply. “You or me?”

Chris looked to the control panel, pausing for a moment, before he swallowed and straightened his back. “Me.”

~

The trek back to Earth was mostly quiet. Chris clearly wasn’t in a position to talk at the moment, and Phil didn’t want to push him, so he busied himself by booking arrangements for them in Mojave - a rental car, a place to stay, confirmation with the hospital in Bakersfield that they were, in fact, coming to retrieve Emily’s remains. He also sent a brief note to his family:  _ Chris’ mom died. On our way to Earth. He’s doing as well as you’d expect. Send him a kind note if you can. - P. _

Around 0300, Phil turned to Chris. “Why don’t you go back and get some sleep? I can drive for a while.”

Chris swallowed and shook his head. “I’m okay.”

“Chris, you’ve been awake for, what, twenty-one hours?” Phil said gently. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m not gonna be  _ able _ to sleep,” he said softly, and Phil’s heart cracked down the middle a little bit.

“You want me to give you something?” Chris shook his head. “Okay. But if you can’t sleep, just  _ rest.  _ Lie down, close your eyes, give your systems a break for a little while. Doctor’s orders.”

Chris looked over at Phil. The dark circles under his eyes stood out harshly under the console lights, and he looked oddly  _ numb.  _ “Okay,” he acquiesced.

Phil took Chris’ place in the pilot’s seat, alternating between looking out at the stars zipping by and looking over at Chris, curled into a fetal position on one of the aft benches. After around an hour, Phil heard the faintest of snores, and he smiled softly.

He must have dozed off himself, because the next thing he heard was Chris’ steady  _ professional voice.  _ “Federation Shuttle Dignity to Mojave Spaceport. Requesting clearance to land.” Phil looked out the viewscreen; the black of space turned to navy, then to cerulean, then to crisp, clear sky blue.

_ “Mojave here. Clearance granted, Dignity.” _

Chris looked down at the desert coming into stark relief and paled dramatically. Phil moved to replace him at the controls. “I’ll bring her in.”

“Thank you,” Chris managed, stumbling back to the head.

Phil landed the shuttle - a minor miracle in and of itself; he hadn’t landed a bird since the Academy - and he and Chris went to rent their car and head to Bakersfield. In another time, under different circumstances, Phil would’ve peppered Chris with questions about the town around them. After all, this was Chris’ home, the only home he’d ever had other than Starfleet and space. Those questions curled at the back of Phil’s tongue, itching to burst forth. Where was the house he’d grown up in? Where was his school? Did his family ever shop at that grocery store over there? Where had he learned how to swim or fallen in love for the first time or dozed off in the quasi-shade of a Joshua tree? But Chris just stared out the window, his eyes glazed and unseeing, and Phil swallowed down every question as he drove them down the roads leading them to the hospital that had housed Chris’ mother for the past thirty years.

The facility was actually really nice, a single-level building with ample ground, tons of trees - perhaps not especially common in the desert? Phil wasn’t sure - and a shallow brook in front of the building, with a footbridge crossing the water between the parking lot and the entrance. Chris’ eyes, so unfixed for their entire drive, locked onto the hospital with intensity as Phil parked the car. Phil was quite sure it was beyond his ability to understand the complexity of emotions Chris had about this place that had both taken his mother away from him and also shielded her from harm.

“C’mon,” Phil prompted gently. “Let’s go.”

There was no real lobby of sorts inside, but the woman at the front desk had a kind smile. “How can I help you?”

Chris’ eyes were darting around the room, as if he was scrutinizing it, trying to commit it to memory, trying to understand the world his mother had lived most of her life in. Phil put a steadying hand on his back and spoke. “We called about collecting the remains of a deceased resident. Emily Beckett.”

The woman’s face took on an air of sympathy. “Of course. Which of you is her next of kin?”

“I am,” Chris said thickly. “I’m her son.”

Chris produced his ID and signed a couple of legalese forms before the woman handed over two boxes. “These are her personal effects,” she told Phil, handing him the first, larger box. She did not preface the handoff of the second box to Chris.

Chris accepted the box as if he thought it might burn him. He ran his thumb over the print over and over again, as if trying to feel if it was real.

_ Beckett, Emily Christine: 21 March 2191-14 October 2245 _

“Where should we go?” Phil asked gently once they’d gotten back in the car.

Chris didn’t take his eyes off the small metal box in his lap, continuing to touch his mother’s name. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s okay,” Phil said, putting a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “That’s okay. You don’t have to have an answer now.”

Chris closed his eyes and nodded gratefully, and Phil got on the road back to Mojave. They drove in silence for nearly an hour before Chris, unprompted, said, “California City.”

Phil looked to him. “Sorry?”

“California City,” Chris repeated. “It’s a little north of Mojave. It’s where she met Dad. She was happy there, once.”

Phil nodded, switching lanes. “California City.”

He drove past cityscape, past suburbs, and into true desolation, the kind a Maine boy like him had always pictured when he heard the word  _ desert.  _ The roads went from paved to unpaved to dusty dirt, and Phil just kept on driving until Chris looked up at the terrain and nodded. They parked at the foot of a low hill - probably illegally, not that Phil had ever really paid the law too much mind - and he and Chris got out and climbed to the summit. It was sunset, and the sky was electric pink and yellow, with tiny, stubborn slivers of blue peeking through the high clouds. It was a little chilly, and so beautifully, serenely quiet, with only the sounds of the desert around them, nocturnal creatures flirting with that narrow passage between asleep and awake. Phil spotted a small fox and her young scurrying by their car below, a subtle comment from the universe on the persistence of life even in an environment that could easily be mistaken for dead.

It was peaceful.

Next to him, Chris was still looking at the box in his hands. His mouth was closed, but his jaw was working, as if he wanted to speak but was trying to sort out the words and teach his tongue to say them.

“Do you think she loved me?” he finally managed. The question sounded so raw that Phil feared any response he could give to it might physically shatter Chris. “I was an accident,” he continued. “She never planned on me. And then I was  _ there,  _ and once I was, she just got worse and worse, until…” His voice faded away. This man - this courageous, brilliant, beautiful man, a Starfleet commander, a published sociologist and historian and tactician, independent and strong - had never looked quite so small and vulnerable as he did at that very moment.

“Until she knew that leaving was the most loving choice she could make,” Phil finished, in the gentlest voice he had. He wasn’t sure where that understanding had come from, but he knew with a ferocity he could not explain that it was true. He thought of this woman, of a young mother turned soldier against her own neurochemistry, coming to terms with the fact that the only way to protect her son from that raging battle was to leave him in a safe place and go to war without him. He knew it must have been agonizing, and he knew - he  _ knew _ \- that it had been an act of the deepest and most primal maternal love to spare her son from the demons she herself could not escape. “She loved you, Chris. She loved you so much that she knew she had to let you go.”

Chris bent his head and nodded slowly. He took a deep breath, ran his thumb over his mother’s name one final time, and unlatched the box. A gentle wind blew by, ruffling Chris’ hair, then catching and dancing with what remained of Emily Beckett and carrying her off to mingle with the flora and fauna of the desert.

“Bye, Mom,” Chris whispered in the smallest voice Phil had ever heard him use. Phil rested his hand softly on Chris’ shoulder, and that did it. The reality of the situation hit Chris full force, and he curled into Phil, gripping his shirt, weeping like a child, sobbing like a little boy who wanted his mother. Chris had once told Phil that he’d never cried about his mother - not even when she “got sick,” to use the family’s euphemism - and it felt like all thirty-five years of grief and anger and confusion and numbness and guilt had just come screaming to a head as it became real to Chris that this moment, right here on this hilltop, was as close to a resolution as those emotions would ever get, because now his mother was gone,  _ forever,  _ and  _ god,  _ that was  _ just so unfair. _

Phil held him tight, letting him cry, rocking him a little as they stood there on the hill. He didn’t speak. He just tried to say what he needed to say without words:  _ I love you. I’m so sorry you’re hurting. Please let me take some of your pain so you don’t have to bear it all. _

“Phil,” Chris murmured after several long minutes, “I’m  _ exhausted.” _

Phil nodded into Chris’ hair. “C’mon. Let’s go get some rest.”

~

_ It was a scorching hot summer day, the sun screaming into his eyes so harshly he could barely see. When he blinked, he made out the form of a young woman. She was blonde, with big blue eyes and a slightly crooked smile, wearing a silver necklace with a pendant in the shape of a calla lily. She looked healthy, vibrant, happy, calm. She looked like a woman who had pleaded all her life for relief and finally gotten it. _

_ She had a very familiar nose. _

_ “Take care of him for me,” she said, her alto voice strong and confident. “And don’t ever let him believe that I didn’t love him with every cell in my body.” _

_ She smiled broadly, then faded back into the light. _

Phil jolted awake.

Sometimes, he felt like the gossamer curtain that separated life from death was semi-permeable. Sometimes, he felt like people who had died were able to speak through that curtain. It was rare, but he’d had moments like this before, from his grandfather  _ (“Tout va bien, mon petit agneau; je vais bien”)  _ to the first patient he’d ever lost (“Please don’t kick yourself; there’s nothing you could’ve done for me, and I’m okay now”). He had no way of knowing if those experiences were real or not. His scientific brain told him they certainly weren’t, that the dead didn’t speak, even in dreams; but that same scientific brain countered with the first law of thermodynamics:  _ Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed from one form into another. _

A cursory glance at the clock showed it had only been about an hour since he and Chris had finally,  _ finally _ fallen asleep. The absence of faint snores to his right seemed to indicate that Chris’ sleep hadn’t stuck, either. The Chris-shaped shadow at the foot of the bed was also a clue.

“What are you doing?” Phil asked lowly. When Chris didn’t respond, Phil sat up and crawled to the foot of the bed, settling next to him. By the filtered light of the streetlamps coming through their motel room windows, Chris was going through the box of his mother’s possessions.

“I think I was in fourth grade there,” Chris said roughly, handing an old school photo over to Phil. A miniature, rosy-cheeked, shy-smiled Chris looked back at him. “I don’t know how she got it; Dad must’ve sent it to her.” He patted a large stack of moleskine notebooks next to him. “She kept journals. She wrote poetry. Some of these are from before I was born. I never knew.” He pulled a large sheaf of paper out of the box, looking at it, letting out a puff of a laugh. “Their divorce decree.” He shuffled through the box. “This is all just...paper. Loose-leaf paper. I’m not sure what it all is.”

“Want me to turn on the light?” Phil asked. When Chris nodded, he did.

“Oh my god.”

Newspaper clippings. Hundreds of them. Some printed from public records, others meticulously torn from larger sheets of paper. All with the same theme.

_ Christopher Pike, age 7, took second place in the Kern County Spelling Bee on Thursday evening. _

_ Christopher Pike, a sophomore at Mojave Senior High, stands with his project on comparative alien journalism. _

_ Vincent Austin Pike, 63, died suddenly on June 23 at his home in Mojave. _

_ Starfleet Academy Graduates, Class of 2231 _

_ McCullough, Pike to wed in May _

Under them all, a copy of Chris’ thesis, hole-punched and bound in a heavy plastic binder.

“She kept tabs on me,” Chris breathed, lifting each clipping from the box delicately. “She looked for me. All the time. All my life.”

_ Don’t ever let him believe that I didn’t love him with every cell in my body.  _ “Of course she did,” Phil said softly. “She was your mom. She was proud of you.”

Chris smiled through shiny eyes and gave a shaky breath. “She was  _ proud _ of me.” He spoke the words reverently, as if absorbing the realization that they were true, that one of his parents was proud of him.

Phil patted Chris’ back gently, looking back to the box, where... _ wait. _ “What’s that?”

“Hmm?”

Phil reached into the box and tugged gently. Something shiny was there, right at the bottom, adhered to the tape keeping the seams of the box together. “It’s…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. A thin silver box chain dangled from his fingertips, on which a pendant in the shape of a calla lily swung like a pendulum.

“Oh my god, I remember that!” Chris cried, grabbing the pendant and examining it. “I had completely forgotten about this. She never took it off. She would lean down to kiss me goodnight and it would land on my neck. I remember how cold the metal got in the winter.” Phil was struck dumb, just staring at the necklace. Chris looked at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Phil said quietly. “Just...reminds me of something.”

~

Late that evening, Phil walked over to the greasy spoon next door to their motel and got some takeout - a burger and fries for Chris, a steamed vegetable plate for Phil. When he got back to their room and was about to open the door, he paused at what he heard inside.  _ Mom? _

Chris had opened the window of their room, letting a cool fall breeze blow in, and from inside the room, Phil could’ve  _ sworn _ he just heard his own mother’s voice.

_ “And spare my precious boy from my torment, from this exile to the outskirts of grace, and etch into his marrow that I loved him with my entire wounded heart and unquiet mind and aching soul, until my last breath,”  _ Chris read, his words barely discernible through his tears. “She didn’t even call it a poem. She called it a  _ prayer.” _

“She was your mother, honey.” Yes, that was definitely Mom he was talking to, that low, comforting, resonant voice. “That’s what parents do. It doesn’t matter what we believe, or  _ if _ we believe; when we become parents, we will implore any hypothetical deity in earshot to keep our babies safe, warm, fed, happy, loved. Of course she prayed, Chris. We do that, even if we don’t know to whom.”

“I miss her,” Chris wept. “How can I only miss her  _ now,  _ when I haven’t missed her in all these years?”

Mom  _ tsked _ softly. “Oh, sweet boy. You’re not mourning your mom the way you would if you’d grown up with her. You’re morning  _ what if.  _ You’re mourning the loss of possibility, the loss of opportunity to know her, to talk with her, to seek her counsel. You’re mourning what could have been if things had been different. That’s not something you realize except in retrospect.”

There was a pause. Chris sniffled softly.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Mom said gently. “I’ve lost both my parents, my brother, and one of my sisters. I know this pain, sweetheart. I know this grief. But you know what?” She paused, and Phil could  _ hear _ her smile. “Grief is a fibonacci spiral, Chris. You’re going to find that, every time it comes back around, it’s a little bit farther from the center.”

Phil closed his eyes and smiled. God, his mom was great.

“I wish I could step through this screen and give you a hug right now,” she said.

Chris laughed wetly. “I could use one.”

Phil chose that moment to enter the room. Chris looked up as Phil set their food down, walked over, and hugged Chris tight from behind, Chris’ hand coming up and resting fondly on his wrist. “I got her hugging genes,” he said softly, smiling at the screen of the terminal. “Hi, Mom.”


	15. Chapter 15

“Hey, got a sec?”

Phil turned from his restocking of antipyretic hypos to face Chris. Medbay was nearly deserted except for a handful of nurses and techs; Dr. Levin was off for the second day of Passover, making Phil the  _ de facto  _ chief medical officer for now. “What’s up?”

Chris’ face looked grave. “Nguyen just told us we’re changing course to Tarsus IV. There’s been some kind of disaster and they need aid. We’re closest.”

“Casualties?”

“I presume so,” Chris said, “but I don’t know any details. She used the word  _ nightmare _ in describing it, though.”

“Shit.”

Chris nodded grimly. “Brief your people up here, and pick three others to transport down. Nurses, techs, docs - I don’t care; if they can serve as field medics, it’s fine. You’re coming, too. We’ll get there in the next few hours; I’ll let you know when we get closer.”

Phil nodded somberly. “Got it.”

Preparing for a medical emergency in medbay was challenging, but manageable. It was easy to run down the differential of possible injuries and needed treatments and to have the right equipment and meds at the ready. Preparing for a medical emergency in the field was much harder, especially when lacking details about the nature of that emergency. What was Phil supposed to be prepared for? Violence? Infectious agents? Thermal injuries? Famine? Mental health crises? The possibilities were many and varied, and it would be impossible, he thought, to adequately prepare for every single one of them. He wound up picking a mishmash of dermal regenerators, analgesics, and broad-spectrum antibiotics and crossing his fingers that one or more of them would do the trick.

For the away teams, he picked Alice Ambruzzi, a nurse practitioner fresh out of school with a heart of gold; Sakan, a surgical tech and seasoned field medic; and Martha Craddock, Phil’s dear old friend from labor and delivery, a doctor in nurse’s clothing, who had chosen to return to space after her divorce.

“What is the nature of the crisis?” Sakan asked as Phil briefed them.

“I have no idea,” Phil answered, “only that it’s bad.”

“We require more data,” Sakan protested. “It is illogical for us to prepare to render aid if we do not have the information we need to make sound preparations.”

“I don’t disagree, Sakan,” Phil said, “and if I had more information to give you, I would. I’ve stocked medkits to handle what I can suspect are the most likely threats, but if things are particularly sticky, we’ll probably need to beam them up here anyway.”

Sakan huffed - or, well, the closest thing to  _ huffing _ a Vulcan ever did - but quieted.

“We’re going in four separate teams, one for each quadrant of the settlement,” Phil continued. “Each team will have one medical officer, one commanding officer, and several security personnel. Alice, you’ll be on team Alpha, commanded by Captain Nguyen; I’ll be on team Beta, led by Commander Pike; Martha, team Gamma, led by Lieutenant Commander Zoss; and Sakan, team Delta with Lieutenant Commander Singh. Commander Zapata will stay aboard and be in command of the Vaughan until we return.”

Ambruzzi looked a little pale. Phil sympathized; for a new grad, this must be a little intimidating. “What if we need to beam someone back here?” she asked softly.

“We’re going to keep an open comm line - not just med teams, but all away team members, both person-to-person and to the Vaughan herself. If we need to transport, we can do it in seconds, and we have plenty of personnel staying up here to assist or take over with care that needs to happen shipside.”

“Would it not be prudent to cancel Dr. Levin’s leave and return her to duty?” Sakan asked. “There exists no medical reason for her to be on leave, and she is a highly capable physician.”  _ You, less so  _ was implied.

_ Ignore people that are shitty. _

“We have twenty-one medical personnel currently on duty or on call, including four  _ highly capable physicians,  _ myself included,” Phil said patiently. “Dr. Levin’s religious leave will continue unless we determine that a twenty-second pair of hands is necessary.”

Sakan Vulcan-huffed again.  _ Who knew Vulcans could be drama queens? _

_ “Nguyen to medbay.” _

Phil flipped on the wall comm. “Boyce here.”

_ “Your teams ready to roll?” _

“Aye, Captain.”

_ “Teams Alpha and Beta to transporter room one; teams Gamma and Delta to two.” _

“Understood. Boyce out.” Phil turned to his teams. “Let’s go.”

~

The eerie silence that enveloped them as soon as they beamed to the surface of Tarsus IV was something that would never leave Phil as long as he lived. The putrid aroma of ash, weeping crops, and decaying flesh; the sights of rubble and dust and fields left to rot and  _ bodies,  _ so many bodies; the feeling of the corners of his tricorder digging into his flesh as he gripped it hard, seeking an outlet for the  _ rage _ that overtook him - those sense memories were branded into his mind, scorched into the tissues like these fires into the land.

“Mother of mercy,” Lieutenant Murphy murmured to Phil’s left, making the sign of the cross. To his right, Ensign See stooped to the ground and threw up. Chris turned to Phil and made eye contact; Chris looked queasy and grim.

“All right,” Chris finally said, taking a deep breath. “All right. Fan out. Get on the comm with signs of life. Keep your phasers on stun. Go.”

There was a pause in which everyone seemed frozen to the ground, Chris included, not wanting to separate from one another, before they all did as they were told. Phil didn’t even know where to begin. He surveyed the bodies he came across -  _ third-degree burns, dead; penetrating injury, dead; gunshot wound, dead; blunt force trauma, dead; emaciation, dead -  _ and began to seriously doubt the utility of medical personnel on this away mission.  _ There’s nothing I can do for these people. _

What the  _ hell _ had happened here, though? There were so many question marks in Phil’s brain, nestled amongst the fury and grief and frustration and all the death that emanated from the trauma around him. Violence and famine, obviously, but on such a mass scale? Affecting everyone from newborns to elders, seemingly of every socioeconomic class, race, species, sex? None of this made sense. He was sure Captain Nguyen had more details than she was making public on the how and why of all of this, and at once Phil desperately wanted to know more and was terrified of knowing more.

“Boyce to med teams,” he said dully. “Report.”

_ “Doctor, this is Sakan. Our team has located no survivors in the northwestern quadrant of the colony. However, this area was known to be sparsely populated. We have identified approximately two hundred deceased individuals, most of whom appear to have died by starvation or dehydration.” _

Phil swallowed, putting his head in his hands.

_ “Craddock here,”  _ Martha’s voice came.  _ “No survivors identified in the southwestern quadrant, either. Multiple fatalities of unknown cause.” _

Phil rubbed one temple, trying to breathe deeply. “Ambruzzi? What about you?”

Ambruzzi’s voice sounded tight and nasal, and Phil could immediately tell she’d been crying.  _ “This is Ambruzzi,”  _ she said softly.  _ “Our team has identified several thousand casualties in the southeastern quadrant, most of them concentrated in the capital city center. They…”  _ She paused, letting out a small sob.  _ “Most of them appear to have been murdered.” _

Phil shook his head sadly. “I’m finding the same here,” he muttered. “Keep scanning for now, just in case there’s anybody who - ”

_ “Pike to away team,”  _ Chris’ voice interrupted through the comm.  _ “I have six juvenile survivors with me. All need urgent medical attention. Phil, beam back up and assemble your troops.” _

Phil’s heart rate doubled as he jumped to his feet. “On it,” he replied. “Sakan, Craddock, Ambruzzi, you heard the man. Boyce to Vaughan - transport all med team members.”

Seconds after they had rematerialized aboard the Vaughan and stepped off the transporter pad, it shimmered to life again, bringing with it five children who were grey, injured, and far too thin.  _ I thought there were six?  _ Phil thought.  _ And where’s Chris? _

Ambruzzi, bless her, had composed herself enough to smile gently at the terrified children and introduce herself to them as Sakan and Martha helped them onto gurneys and they prepared to head to medbay. Phil moved to help her, but Chris’ voice crackled over the comm.  _ “Pike to Vaughan. LaPresta, do you have the five survivors?” _

“Present and accounted for, sir. Locking onto you and the remaining survivor.”

_ “Work fast,”  _ Chris said, in that insistent voice that Phil knew meant business.  _ “He needs Phil.” _

Phil heard everything that didn’t say. Chris would know Phil was in the transporter room to hear it. Chris would know Phil would hear what was left unsaid:  _ This is bad. Be ready to perform. Now. _

“Doctor, there’s ionic interference in the atmosphere; I have to beam them to transporter room two,” LaPresta said lowly. Phil didn’t even pause; he flew from the room, down to deck twelve, as fast as his legs would carry him. Martha was on his heels, along with another nurse - he wasn’t sure who - and an anti-grav gurney.

Add to the list of sense memories that would never leave Phil as long as he lived: the look of deliberate, steady calm on Chris’ face as he rematerialized, the kind of calm that Phil knew was blanketing a thick layer of panic and desperation, as he picked up the red-faced, screaming boy with him and placed him on the gurney.

“It’s all right, son,” Chris was saying gently. “We’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

The boy was short, fair-haired, and like his companions, far too skinny for a child of his age. He wailed for someone named Sam; he wailed for what sounded like  _ his kids;  _ he clung to Chris’ tunic with a strength belied by his wasted form. Chris clutched him close to his chest, letting him fall next to his heartbeat, kind of like Charlie had done with Phil after Phil had fallen through the ice as a kid. Knowing they would get nowhere without sedating the boy, Phil did some quick mental math, loaded some midazolam into a hypospray, and pressed it into the boy’s jugular. His screams faded to whimpers, and his whimpers to nothingness as he fell asleep, his white-knuckled grip on Chris’ shirt slowly loosening.

Chris ran a hand through the boy’s grungy hair, his calm melting into a horrified  _ why?  _ that Phil could not spare a breath to answer.

“Medbay,” he intoned to the nurses.  _ “Now.” _

~

For the first time in days, it was quiet in medbay. Dr. Levin had shooed all the exhausted and overworked staff off to bed, leaving only a skeleton overnight crew. Phil had been included in the shooing, but he’d stayed to update the children’s charts, documentation that had gone by the wayside in the course of providing their care.

“Medical log, stardate 2246.97; Dr. Philip Boyce reporting,” he dictated lowly from inside the CMO’s office. “Present condition of Tarsus IV victims aboard USS Vaughan as of 0100 hours as follows:

“Kevin Riley, age seven; severe malnutrition and dehydration, evidence of post-traumatic stress, stable bradycardia, and multiple superficial wounds. Condition: Fair. Corrina Bocanegra, age eight; severe malnutrition and dehydration, evidence of post-traumatic stress, and multiple superficial wounds. Other injuries under seal. Condition: Fair. Shelby Cross, age nine; severe malnutrition and dehydration, evidence of post-traumatic stress, complicated left tib-fib fracture, and acute intestinal helminthic infection of unknown etiology, resolving. Condition: Fair. Thomas Leighton, age ten; severe malnutrition and dehydration, evidence of post-traumatic stress, second and third degree chemical burns to the left face, and status post left orbital exenteration. Condition: Serious but stable.” Phil took a deep breath, rubbing one of his eyes. “James Kirk, age thirteen,” he continued. “Severe malnutrition and dehydration, evidence of post-traumatic stress, complicated bilateral pyelonephritis, multiple poorly healed rib fractures, occipital skull fracture, right scaphoid fracture, right radial fracture, left shoulder dislocation, persistent tachycardic arrhythmia. Other injuries under seal. Condition: Serious but stable.”

Phil paused, swallowed, and ran his hands through his hair, mentally preparing himself to say the next words. “Rachel Aldrich, age eleven,” he continued. “Severe malnutrition and dehydration, acute renal failure due to untreated compartment syndrome of the left thigh, resulting from open femoral fracture. Condition: Deceased.”

“You know,” Dr. Levin said gently from the door of the office, “when I told everybody to get the hell out of here and get some sleep, I meant you, too.”

Phil nodded numbly. “I know.”

Dr. Levin sighed, slipping a wayward lock of hair back into her  _ tichel,  _ and sat on the desk, turned toward Phil. “Thought you should know I’m putting you in for a commendation.”

Phil looked up at her. Maybe it was the exhaustion, but he was puzzled. “For what?”

She tilted her head, gesturing toward the sedated children in the treatment areas. “For saving these kids’ lives,” she answered. “For using the fairly limited resources of a starship to treat grave physical and psychological injuries, in pediatric cases, no less. You’ve worked yourself to the bone to save all these children, Phil. You deserve recognition for that.”

Phil looked at his hand, where it fiddled with a tricorder sensor on the desk, and for a moment, said nothing. When he spoke, even he didn’t recognize the voice that came out of him. “I  _ didn’t _ save all the children, though.”

Dr. Levin shook her head. “You and I both know that girl was too far gone by the time she got up here,” she said gently. “Thigh compartment syndrome with complicating renal failure? We could’ve been on Earth with all the resources in the world and I don’t think she would’ve made it. She was just too sick.” She put her hand on Phil’s. “You made sure her final moments were free of pain and fear, Phil. That makes you heaven-sent.”

“Tell that to her family,” Phil murmured. “What’s left of them, at least.”

There was silence for a long moment, where all Phil could hear was the steady hum of the warp engines. Finally, Dr. Levin spoke again. “You once told me you had some Jewish ancestry, right?”

Phil frowned slightly at the non sequitur. “Yeah. The Hensley side. My mom’s mom.”

“So you’ve heard what we usually say when someone’s died,” Dr. Levin continued. Phil shook his head slightly. “We say  _ may her memory be a blessing.”  _ She paused significantly, letting the words make their impact. “Let Rachel’s memory be a blessing, Phil. Not a cloud over your head, not an excuse to kick your own ass, and certainly not a reason to doubt yourself as a doctor.  _ A blessing.  _ Give her the dignity Tarsus wouldn’t.”

Phil nodded slowly. He heard the words, he recognized their value, but he wasn’t ready to implement them just yet.  _ Sometimes you just need a second to feel shitty about yourself, because then life can continue on. _

“Go to bed,” Dr. Levin ordered. “Eat something. Sleep. Get out of here for at least twelve hours and take care of yourself.”

On rubbery legs, Phil obeyed. Well, he obeyed the  _ get out of here _ part. The sleeping and eating, less so.

He didn’t know exactly how long he’d been sitting in his cabin in the dark, just staring out the porthole at the stars streaking past at high warp, when his door opened. Chris’ silhouette approached and sat down next to him. “How are you?”

Phil shook his head, pulling his knees a little closer to his torso. “I lost an eleven-year-old girl,” he whispered. “I’m not great.”

Chris put a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “You did everything you could for her, Phil.” Phil opened his mouth to protest, but Chris kept talking. “No, listen to me. You are the most brilliant, bold, creative physician I’ve ever met. I know you would’ve walked through hellfire if it meant saving that kid’s life, because that’s who Phil Boyce is. It’s branded into your DNA. If  _ anyone  _ in this galaxy could’ve saved her, it would’ve been you. She was just too sick to be saved.” Chris smiled sadly. “That’s heartbreaking. But that’s  _ not _ your personal failing.”

Phil closed his eyes and nodded. Something in him, down deep, buried under doubts and  _ what ifs _ and guilt and anger and grief, knew that to be true. Something in him reminded him of science, that even in the twenty-third century with all its medical and technological marvels, about forty percent of people with thigh compartment syndrome would die anyway, and that number skyrocketed when it had progressed enough to fry the patient’s kidneys. But right now, science was not in the driver’s seat. Heartsickness was.

“You know what else?” Chris continued softly. “On top of being the most brilliant physician I’ve ever known, you’re also the most compassionate. Remember what Sarah said about you that one time? How you don’t know how to  _ not _ care? She was right. You don’t. And more than all the clinical skill in the world,  _ that’s  _ what makes you so good, Phil. And that’s also why you’re hurting so much right now.” Chris took Phil’s chin and turned it up, tilting it to face him directly, and Phil let himself fall into the brief and solemn comfort of Chris’ face, open and kind and beautiful, so beautiful. “Fibonacci spirals, remember?”

_ Grief is a fibonacci spiral. Every time it comes back around, it’s a little bit farther from the center. _

From somewhere in the ether, Phil felt something he couldn’t describe. Sort of like a soft breeze rustling the hairs at the back of his neck, but also not; sort of like the feeling of submerging one’s hands into rich, fertile soil, but somehow larger and softer. It felt like a comforting, low whisper caressing each of his cells, saying  _ thank you; I’m glad I had you; it’s okay; I’m all right now; it’s okay to let go. _

_ Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed from one form into another. _

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem the wellspring of tears that burned behind his lids.  _ I’m sorry, Rachel. _

Chris wrapped his arms around Phil and held him tight, rocking him a little. He didn’t shower him with trite platitudes; he didn’t even shush the tears that Phil could no longer hold back. He just held him, a tactile statement that resonated more than words ever would have in that moment:  _ I’m here. I’ve got you. Let it go. _

~

“The science department is still trying to determine the nature of the fungal spores found in the crop samples on Tarsus IV,” Captain Nguyen was saying. “They don’t appear to be of natural origin.”

“Wait,” Laura said, frowning, “you mean this was some kind of intentional destruction?”

“I mean they don’t appear to be of natural origin,” Nguyen repeated carefully.  _ Draw your own conclusions,  _ her body language added.

“Obviously that accounts for how emaciated the colonists were,” Commander Zapata said. “But what about the casualties of violence? Famine does not stab and shoot.”

Nguyen stood, shaking her head, and looked out the window of the briefing room. “Food riots, maybe? French Revolution-style?”

“I don’t think those babies whose bodies we found posed much threat to the distribution of food,” Tharoor Singh, the Vaughan’s chief engineer, said darkly.

“Maybe it was some kind of cult activity,” Zapata interjected. “I read about an ancient Earth cult with a mass suicide much like that.”

“Suicide pact by fungus?” Nguyen said doubtfully. “Doesn’t add up.”

“Terrorism?” Chris suggested. Every head in the room turned toward him, very slowly. Chris shrugged mildly. “It’s not like the Federation doesn’t have enemies. Attacking a comparatively remote colony with agricultural sabotage is a pretty low-risk terrorist tactic.”

“But how could they have done so?” Zapata said doubtfully. “And what of the penetrative trauma injuries? Romulans and Klingons don’t usually use projectile firearms to get their point across.”

“That just means it’s not Romulans or Klingons,” Nguyen said. “But a two-pronged thing like that? I don’t know. The famine and the violence have to be connected in some way; I just don’t know how.” She sighed, rubbing her temple. “Maybe once the surviving children are more psychologically stable, they’ll be able to fill in some of the blanks. I assume that won’t be anytime soon.”

_ No the fuck it will not,  _ Phil swallowed back. “No, ma’am,” he said instead. “They’re still sedated and will remain so for the foreseeable future.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Nguyen said with a nod. “Let them sleep.”

Under the briefing table, Chris gave Phil’s leg a gentle kick, a little sign of  _ I know. Take a deep breath. _

Phil took the wordless advice, inhaled deeply, and kicked him back.


	16. Chapter 16

Eight years in space is rough on a starship. Even with the occasional stop-off at a starbase to replenish dilithium stores or upgrade software, eight years of warp, transporters, shields, replicators, computer memory, phaser fire, and general wear-and-tear from supporting eight hundred people leaves a vessel weary. In the end, the Vaughan was made of metal and power; metal eventually bends and power eventually exhausts itself. So shortly after the Tarsus massacre, the good ol’ girl was fixing to settle in spacedock for a nice, long maintenance overhaul, the kind she’d badly needed for years.

(The ship’s rumor mill had it that Captain Nguyen actually  _ cried _ when they used the word  _ “decommissioned”  _ about her baby, but a sizeable minority seemed to insist the woman did not possess tear ducts.)

It was with the understanding that they would soon find themselves out of jobs that Laura appeared at Phil’s elbow as he and Chris ate lunch in the mess hall one day. “I have a hot tip,” she said mysteriously.

Chris jumped, startled. “How do you do that thing where you materialize as if from nowhere?” he asked grumpily. “Love to learn that skill.”

“Transporters have existed for about a hundred and fifty years,” Laura replied, stealing one of Chris’ fries off his plate without breaking eye contact. “Seem to recall us all having to take a class on them at the Academy. Now, do you want my hot tip or not?”

“Hot tip, please,” Phil interjected.

“Thank you, Philip.” She leaned in a little, as if shielding their conversation from eavesdroppers. “I’ve got a couple friends who work in engineering on the Fontana. They told me that they’re about to go out on an eight-month science mission studying the interplay of different types of radiation in the atmospheres of uninhabited planets. But! Before they go, they’re stopping at Earth.”

Chris shrugged. “Okay?”

Laura smirked. “They’re stopping at Earth for a personnel dump. Their 2IC is pregnant and about to pop, and the CMO’s her husband.” She looked between the two of them expectantly. “Please tell me I don’t have to draw you a diagram.”

Chris and Phil looked at each other. Chris was a commander now, the ideal rank for a first officer, and he had plenty of space experience; between Phil’s time on the Vaughan and his fellowship work, and with a recommendation from Dr. Levin, Phil could easily be CMO material. It would also keep them together, which - well. The biggest of bonuses.

Phil raised his eyebrows at Chris. “Well?” he asked, his tone leading. “You wanna?”

A broad, toothy grin stretched across Chris’ face. “Hell yeah, I wanna.”

~

There were undoubtedly many good things about joining the crew of the Fontana - new scientific experiences, CMO status, Chris still being right next door - but one thing Phil could’ve done without was the mass acclimation to working with people whose moves he could not predict, nor vice versa. Phil quite liked everyone he met in his first day on the Fontana, and their warmth and friendliness made adjusting to new surroundings much easier to handle; but when you work with the same crew for so long, you sort of start to read one another’s minds, and not having them around left Phil feeling a little out of sorts. Ambruzzi and Sakan had both left Starfleet for private practice and medical research, respectively; Beth Hirono and Dr. Levin had transferred to the USS Mirzakhani; and Martha had stayed on Earth to reconnect with her teenage daughter, Christine. The people who’d felt like Phil’s right hands in medbay were all scattered, and it left him with a sense of disequilibrium.

Fortunately, as previously noted, one of the bright spots was Chris still being right next door to him, a perfectly steady constant in a time of turmoil. And at the end of their first day on shift, with the Fontana still in drydock and a morning launch being planned, Phil  _ really _ needed some time with Chris, some semblance of familiarity and connection. They’d made tentative plans to meet in the mess hall for dinner, but Chris hadn’t known when he’d be getting the time to squeeze a meal in. Seconds-in-command, much like starship doctors, are really never  _ not _ on call, and any plans they make should be considered tentative.

As such, Phil was neither surprised nor concerned when Chris was a no-show in the mess hall. No doubt he’d gotten tied up with Captain Russell and hadn’t been able to peel himself away. No big deal; knowing Chris, he’d come by later, flop himself onto Phil’s sofa all  _ draw me like one of your French girls _ style, and they’d catch up then. Instead, Phil headed back to his cabin, replicated something to eat, and called Sarah to touch base with the family before they left comm range.

He must’ve fallen asleep after that, because he woke up to his door chime at nearly 0100.

“I’m sorry,” Chris said before Phil could even open his mouth to speak. “I’m sorry, I’m  _ such _ an asshole, god. I was gonna comm you, and then Russell and I worked late, and then I was trying to get my stuff put up before I came to see you, and then, well…”

Phil rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, then frowned at Chris. “Why do you look all...rumply?”

Chris smiled slightly, running a hand along the back of his neck, and gave an embarrassed-sounding laugh. “Ah. That. Well.” He paused as Phil reached up to smooth Chris’ similarly rumply hair; it was driving him _crazy._ “I, um...god, all right, don’t judge me too harshly.”

Phil had never judged Chris for anything, ever, and wasn’t about to start now; but he had to admit, that was an  _ awfully _ ominous way to start a sentence.

“I sorta...slept with somebody tonight.”

Now, if Phil  _ had _ been the judging sort - which, again, he wasn’t, not even a little bit - there was a veritable  _ smorgasbord _ of bases for judgment on that statement. The only person on the entire ship that Chris had known for longer than  _ a single day _ was Phil, and Chris certainly hadn’t slept with  _ him.  _ Chris had picked sex with said near-stranger over spending time with Phil, which Phil couldn’t deny he found at least moderately hurtful. Furthermore, there was only a one in a hundred and sixty-nine chance that the person Chris had slept with was  _ not _ his subordinate; and that one chance would be with Russell, which would come with its own special set of complications, not least because Russell was (a) the captain, and (b) a man, and as Phil had been painfully aware for damn near twenty years, Chris was (c) straight. Most significantly of all, though, Chris had a long, messy, incredibly painful history of drawing straight lines between sex and love and getting his heart broken when that strategy ultimately failed him, from Siobhan to his Academy girlfriend all the way back to high school. If Chris and this officer weren’t on the same page, this could end in yet more pain for Chris, and  _ god,  _ Phil didn’t know if he could stand it.

As he fumbled for a diplomatic way of saying  _ hey, as your best friend, I think I should advise you that you’re head’s currently farther up your ass than usual,  _ he wound up saying, “Who?”

“Gen Lopez,” Chris answered. “Chief conn officer. Lieutenant Commander.”

“With the short hair,” Phil said, mentally placing her. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “So. How...how did...what happened?”

Chris did that nervous laugh again, looked to his feet, and shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “We met this morning. She was giving Russell hell about some maintenance tech touching her engines, and she came by my cabin tonight to apologize for being so feisty, and, well...you know how I am with feisty women.”

“I do know that,” Phil said, a little flatly.

“It was just sorta like...spontaneous combustion? I don’t know how to explain it; I’m not someone who puts a lot of stock into  _ chemistry _ and  _ energy _ and all that BS, but that’s kind of what it felt like.” He looked up at Phil sheepishly. “I didn’t realize we carried on as long as we did, though. Truly didn’t mean to abandon you like that. I’m sorry.”

Phil just nodded. “So...you and Lopez...you’re a thing now?”

Chris smiled. “Well, depends on what you mean by  _ thing,”  _ he began. “She doesn’t really want a full-on relationship, and frankly, right now, neither do I. But Gen and I...well. We’ve got this weird energy when we’re in the same room, and it works  _ really _ well together, and it just seems like a shame to waste it.” He paused, running a hand through his hair, mussing it again. “It’s been a damn long time since I had sex, Phil.”

_ Yeah, me too, but you don’t see me gallivanting off with some scrub tech I just met,  _ Phil bit back. “You okay with that?” he said instead. “No relationship, just sex and friendship? Seems like that’s more my style than yours.”

Chris shrugged slightly. “I’m clearly not that great at relationships,” he said. “Maybe you’ve had the right idea all along.” In his peripheral vision, Phil saw Chris’ thumb stroke a half-moon on the underside of his bare left ring finger. “We’ll be fine. I’m gonna throw caution to the wind and see what happens.”

_ You can’t make decisions for someone else. _

“Well,” Phil murmured. “As long as you’re sure which way it’s blowing.”

~

Phil had hoped,  _ very _ hard, that the Chris-and-Gen thing would be temporary. Just a few dalliances here and there, just to get it out of their systems, and then things could return to whatever pseudo-normal could exist between colleagues who’d slept together. Like Chris and Laura, kind of. If Chris and Laura had kept doing it. And been sober at the time.

But Phil had been wrong. A week passed, then two, then three, and Chris and Gen just...kept it up. And with every passing week, Phil found it harder and harder to cope with it, for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. He’d certainly never been like this when Chris had been with other women. Gen herself was terrific, that perfect blend of kind and smart and funny and gorgeous that Chris always wanted, so it certainly wasn’t a dislike of Gen. Was it envy? Well, yeah, but you kind of get used to that gnawing pain after a couple decades; that wasn’t new. Jealousy? Phil wasn’t a naturally jealous person, though he would admit, he was missing his best friend, resentful of Gen for cutting into Chris-and-Phil time, and  _ really _ over that idiotic gaga look Chris got in his eyes when he talked about her, which...yeah, sounded a lot like jealousy. Concern for Gen’s welfare, sleeping with her superior? Definitely; that was a well-worn recipe for disaster. Worry that Chris would show up at his cabin door with tears in his eyes and  _ she dumped me _ on his lips? Enough to see it coming from a parsec away.

It was complicated and messy and ugly and it colored everything with this hazy film of grey, including Phil himself. He had trouble sleeping, he had stomach aches, and all the swimming and yoga in the world wasn’t purging his system adequately.

“Whatcha doing?” a highly familiar voice said behind him.

Phil bit back a sigh. He looked over his shoulder briefly at Chris, hanging in the entrance to the CMO office. “Med inventory,” he answered, turning back to his cabinet.

“Need a hand?” Chris asked. “We’re flying in a straight line and it’s boring as hell. Gen’s on duty and I turned the bridge over to the new kid. What’s his name? Spawn? Spork?”

“Spock?”

“Spock, right.” Chris perched on top of Phil’s desk and smiled. “Wanted to come hang with you instead.”

It did not escape Phil’s attention that  _ Gen’s on duty _ prefaced  _ wanted to come hang with you.  _ Perhaps it should have, but it didn’t. He turned, trying to keep his face neutral, and handed his PADD to Chris. “I’ll call them off. You document the quantities.”

“Aye, Doctor.”

They worked in relative quiet for quite a while, with no real exchange other than Phil’s listing of medications and quantities and the PADD’s  _ bee-boops _ as Chris entered them in. At some point, Phil started to fancy that he could  _ feel _ Chris’ eyes fixating on the back of his head, but he kept his attention on the task at hand.

“Panaprine, thirty doses. I hand that shit out like candy, though; gotta synthesize more. Allotracin, seven five-hundred milligram doses, nineteen two-gram doses - ”

“Are you okay?” Chris finally asked.

_ Oh, no. We’re not having this conversation now.  _ “Fine,” Phil lied. “Cordrazine, twenty-nine doses.”

“Are  _ we _ okay? Did I do something?”

Phil looked back at Chris, briefly overtaken by a bright flash of  _ okay, you really wanna have this discussion now?,  _ but it ebbed away quickly, leaving Phil just shaking his head.

“Uh-uh,” Chris said, tossing the PADD down on Phil’s desk. “No. Don’t give me that dismissive look. You’re pissed at me about something and I don’t even know what I did. This isn’t fair.”

That was actually a valid point. Phil could concede that. He  _ wasn’t _ being fair to Chris.

“You’ve never been shy about telling me how I’ve got my head up my ass before, so c’mon,” Chris said, straightening his posture. “Talk to me.”

_ Do not miss a chance to speak truth. _

“All right,” Phil said on a sigh. “I’m really... _ unsettled... _ about this thing between you and Gen.” That word choice was  _ way _ underselling it, but it was the most diplomatic way he could think to phrase it.

“Unsettled,” Chris echoed flatly.

Phil pursed his lips. “She’s your  _ subordinate,  _ Chris.” He didn’t have any idea why  _ that _ was the first thing that came out of his mouth when it was not his primary concern, but there it was.

“By  _ one rank;  _ that’s hardly a dramatic power imbalance,” Chris protested.

“That doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist.”

“Wait a minute. When I had that...that... _ thing  _ with Number One, you never acted like this. As I recall, you thought it was  _ funny.  _ And she and I were  _ two _ ranks apart back then.” Chris shrugged expansively. “Why now? Why Gen?”

Phil tried not to roll his eyes. “Everybody knew what you and Laura did was just a stupid, drunken bad idea,” he said. “This is different. This is  _ habitual.  _ I just…” Phil paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it. “I don’t know. I thought you had more integrity than that.”

Now  _ that _ was a low blow, and Phil knew it.

“What the - are you questioning my  _ professional ethics?”  _ Chris spat.

_ “No,”  _ Phil said insistently, “I’m just saying that...look, it might be small, but there  _ is _ an imbalance of power in your relationship. I realize you don’t have the power to hire and fire her, but you  _ do _ have to give her orders as part of your job, and she  _ does _ have to obey them as a part of  _ her _ job. Where are the lines?” Phil shrugged. “Does she know where the lines are? Do  _ you?  _ Have you two even  _ talked _ about that?”

“What the hell are you suggesting?” Chris said sharply. “Are you saying that - what - I’d give her orders that she couldn’t say no to in bed? That I’d force her to do something she didn’t want to do?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Then clarify it for me,  _ Doctor!”  _ Chris shouted, loudly enough that Phil was very glad the doors were closed and the walls soundproofed. “You’ve clearly got a feeling something  _ bad _ is going to happen here, so  _ lay it out for me!” _

Phil stopped, took a deep breath, and steadied himself, trying to calm his racing heart. “I’m  _ saying _ that there may be aspects of this thing that are more complicated than you’re giving them credit for.” He raked a hand through his hair, putting the other on his hip. “Okay. Okay, let’s say you’re right. Let’s give you the benefit of the doubt and say that your relationship in the bedroom is entirely egalitarian, in spite of the power dynamics on the bridge. After all, you have a point. This imbalance  _ was _ there with you and Laura, and other than the fact that you still can’t use her given name, your professional relationship didn’t suffer. Mea culpa; concern tabled. All right?” He paused significantly. “My question, then, is this: What happens with you and Gen when your personal relationship changes? What happens to your professional relationship when one of you falls in love with the other, or falls in love with somebody else, or wants to change the rules of engagement? What happens on the bridge of this ship when things behind closed doors change for you two?”

Chris shook his head. “They don’t  _ have _ to change at all. We’ve made it work this long.”

“Without feelings?”

Phil watched as a switch flicked in Chris’ eyes, and he knew he’d hit a sore point. “I thought this was a  _ professional _ concern.”

“Without feelings?” Phil pressed.

“You know what?” Chris spat waspishly. “Take your psych degree and - ”

“Dammit,  _ answer me,”  _ Phil demanded. “Without feelings?”

Chris heaved an enormous sigh. “Yes. Without feelings. We’re screwing, not eloping. No strings, no feelings, no complications. It  _ works _ for us. We’re  _ happy _ with it that way.”

And therein lay the crux of the matter. Because if it had been anyone else in Phil’s life - a patient, his sister, Captain Russell, whoever - then that would’ve been a good enough answer. His respect for autonomy, for people to make their own individual choices about their sex lives, meant that he could’ve let it go at that.

But not this time. Not with Chris. Because Phil  _ knew _ Chris. He knew this man inside out and backwards, could hear his voice from sectors away, was fluent in his sighs and his body language, could name every color in his eyes, knew what he needed and didn’t, knew what he valued and didn’t, knew what he could survive intact and what he couldn’t. He  _ damn sure _ knew when Chris was lying to himself, and he could predict with sharpest accuracy exactly how bad things got when Chris resisted his own self-awareness.

“Jesus Christ, Christopher. It’s  _ me _ you’re talking to. Look, in the twenty-odd years I’ve known you, you’ve never - not  _ once -  _ been able to do a casual relationship.  _ Never.  _ The few times you’ve tried, you’ve felt like absolute shit afterward.”

Chris threw his arms up. “Call it personal growth.”

“I’m calling it  _ bullshit,  _ and I think you know that’s what it is.” Phil was shouting now, too, and he  _ hated _ the sound of his voice raised like that, especially directed to the most important person in his world. “Look, some people can do casual sex, and some people cannot, and you, Commander Pike, fall into the latter category. That’s not good or bad; it just is, but it means that by trying to pull off this fuck buddy thing with Gen,  _ you are lying to yourself.  _ Your marriage taught you this, Chris - that trying to force yourself to be someone you’re not ends badly for you, every time. I’m worried about you, because this is a mistake.”

“Gen and I would disagree with that fine medical opinion,” Chris snapped.

“Well, then, here’s a second opinion, from somebody who knows you better than you know yourself,” Phil shot back. “You’re gonna fall in love with her, Chris, because you cannot compartmentalize for  _ shit,  _ and you know it - not when it comes to work, not when it comes to friends, and especially not when it comes to sex. Sex without love isn’t worth it to you; it never has been, and if you’re not willing to give up the sex, you’re going to add some love to compensate, because you can’t  _ not,  _ and it’ll backfire. She’s  _ not _ going to fall right back in love with you, because from what I can tell, Gen  _ is _ capable of keeping love and sex in separate boxes if she wants to. And when she doesn’t love you back, it’s going to crush your spirit to the bone. So when you  _ fucking inevitably _ fall in love with her, you’re going to  _ fucking inevitably _ come to me to help pick up the shattered pieces of your broken heart  _ yet fucking again,  _ because…” Phil paused, taking a couple of deep breaths, trying to stem the sudden welling of tears behind his eyes. “Because I’m your best friend and it’s my job.” He sighed heavily, looking down at the surface of his desk. “And I am getting so tired of watching women leave you in tatters.”

Chris was silent in the aftermath of Phil’s impromptu soliloquy. Phil didn’t look up from the desk. His face felt hot, his heart was pounding, and he was suddenly just so,  _ so _ tired. Finally, after a long, long pause, Phil spoke again, this time much more quietly and gently. “Look, that was frustration talking. I’m sorry I - ”

“Oh, go to hell,” Chris spat, storming out of the office, then out of medbay.

Phil stood and watched him go, trying not to vomit or scream or punch something, trying to ignore the way his gut seemed to have become a churning cauldron of sad, angry, fearful bile. Once he got control of his muscles again, he walked over, shut his office door again, and sat down at his desk. He steepled his fingers in front of his face, tried in vain to control his breathing, and then buried his head in his hands and wept.

~

The nine days that followed were some of Phil’s worst in recent memory. Even in the confines of his own mind, that sounded privileged and hyperbolic, but never before had he experienced being frozen out by the person he held most dear. He felt very aware of his position in the universe, so incredibly far from all that was familiar to him. He felt  _ alone,  _ and it was awful.

So he tried to throw himself into work, which is how he found himself in his office, perusing a neurosurgery journal, when he had a knock at his door frame. He looked up.  _ Oh. _

“Hey, Dr. Boyce,” Gen Lopez said softly.

_ When you walk into the room with a patient, leave everything else at the door.  _ Or when a patient walks into  _ your  _ room, Phil supposed.  __ “Hi, Gen. What’s up?”

In his head, he braced himself for  _ I was talking to Chris  _ or  _ I understand you don’t like me  _ or  _ Chris asked me to tell you  _ or some other such variant on that theme, so he was caught rather unaware when Gen just asked, “Got anything for a killer headache?”

The brakes went on in Phil’s head. “Uh, yeah,” he answered. “Sure. C’mon.” He led Gen to the nearest empty biobed; she sat on it and closed her eyes. “Any other symptoms bugging you?”

Gen sighed as Phil began to scan her. “Does exhaustion count?” she laughed lowly. “I swear I almost fell asleep on the bridge yesterday. Russell must think I’m a zombie.”

“How much are you sleeping at night?”  _ BP normal, temp normal, heart rate normal...wait. _

_ What? _

_ No. No. Oh, fuck, no. _

“I’m usually out pretty much as soon as I get off shift. Sometimes Chris has to - what?” Phil looked up; Gen was frowning at him, concerned by the look on his face. “What is it?”

_ This can’t be right,  _ Phil thought, recalibrating the tricorder and scanning Gen again.  _ No, no, no. _

“Doctor?”

Phil managed to find his voice. “Computer, activate privacy screen.”

“Okay, now I’m scared; what’s going on?” Gen asked as the screen shimmered to life around them.

Phil took a deep breath, set his tricorder aside, and looked at Gen. “You’re pregnant.”

For a beat, Gen stared uncomprehendingly at him. Then she let out a breath of a laugh. Then she saw that Phil’s face remained somber, and her eyes grew wide. “What?” When Phil just nodded, Gen shook her head. “No. No. I have an implant. So does Chris. That’s impossible.”

Phil took a deep breath. “The spot where your implant was located only has scant traces of hormone in it,” he clarified. “No actual device.”

_ “How?!”  _ Gen cried, before clapping her hand to her mouth in sudden, horrified understanding. “The radiation,” she whispered. “Oh my god, the radiation. Chris and Mendez and I surveyed that planet. Do you think…?”

Phil nodded soberly. “That would be my best guess. You detected iota waves, right?” When Gen nodded, Phil continued. “Between your inoculations and the shuttle’s shields, most radiation couldn’t have penetrated your bodies. But iota waves might have. They’re harmless to organic tissue, metals, most plastics, but - ”

“But they dissolve ethylene polymers,” Gen finished with growing horror. “Like our implants.”

“Exactly. Starfleet-issue contraceptive implants for humans are manufactured on Earth; iota waves are so rare there that I’m sure they never tested the impacts of that particular type of radiation.”

Gen put her head in her hands. “Oh my god,” she murmured. “Oh my god. What do I do?”

Phil had given this news countless times and heard that question in response countless more times, but never,  _ never _ in a situation with this degree of personal complexity. It felt like the truest sort of test of his principles - all of them, from his unshakable belief in autonomy to his determination to put his patients before all else to his love for Chris, even if he  _ was _ being kind of an ass right now.

_ Leave it at the door. Leave it at the door. Leave it at the door. _

Phil sat on the biobed next to Gen, letting his legs dangle like hers were. “All right, take a breath,” he said softly. “I know this sucks and I know this is scary, but no matter what, this is manageable.”

“Easy for you to say,” Gen muttered. “It’s not in  _ your _ body.”

Phil nodded. “Fair point.”

Gen looked up at him again. Her eyes were dry, but huge, her pupils blown. “What do I do?” she repeated.

“There’s no one answer to that question,” Phil said. “You do what you think is right for you.”

“I don’t know what that is yet.”

“That’s okay,” Phil said. “You don’t have to decide anything right now.”

Gen was quiet for a long moment, just staring off into space, visibly processing this. Phil stayed quiet, too, letting her have the moment she needed.

“If I...if I have it,” Gen asked miserably, “when would I... _ have it?” _

Phil did a little bit of mental math. “Sometime around Christmas.”

Gen shook her head. “Merry fucking Christmas,” she muttered under her breath. “You’d be able to handle that, right? The routine care until we got back to Earth?”

“Absolutely. Prenatal care really isn’t that difficult to manage on a starship, especially early.”

“Okay.” Gen paused again, not making eye contact with Phil. “And if I didn’t want to stay pregnant,” she said slowly, “could you handle that?”

“Yes,” Phil assured her. “Medically, it’s very simple.”

Gen nodded, smoothing her hair with both hands. “God.  _ God.  _ You’ve gotta tell the captain. I just realized.”

Strictly speaking, that was true. Starfleet regulations stated that an officer’s pregnancy had to be reported to their CO upon diagnosis, regardless of the health of the pregnant person, the viability of the pregnancy, or whether or not the pregnant person intended to stay that way. Forms had to be filled out, duties had to be restricted, blah, blah, blah. A solid ninety-five percent of it was pure chauvinistic bullshit, and the other five percent was only an issue in some remote circumstances, like someone working in direct contact with the antimatter reactor. And Phil Boyce was not a man known for giving a shit about arbitrary regulations, as a cursory peek at his arrest record might suggest.

“I’m the CMO,” he told her. “I don’t have to do  _ anything _ that’s not in my patient’s best interest.”

Gen looked up at him for the first time since he’d sat down next to her, and her shoulders seemed to relax just a little. “Thank you. I was trying to figure out how to tell Chris when I realized...god,  _ he’s  _ gonna freak out.”

_ Don’t lie to your patients.  _ “He might.”

Gen gave him a Look.  _ “Might?” _

Phil gave a conciliatory nod. “Okay, he will.”

“Would you be with me when I tell him?” Gen’s voice was fragile. “Just...I dunno, he’s gonna ask me how the hell it happened, and…”

“No problem. When you’re ready to call him down, we will.”

“Thank you.” Gen swallowed tightly. “I never wanted children. I always thought I’d have an abortion if I got pregnant. But now…” She sighed. “It’s different, when it’s actually happening. It’s a lot more complicated than I thought it would be.” She scrubbed her face. “I have to think about Chris, and the Fontana, and my career, and the…” She gestured vaguely to her abdomen.

“And  _ you,” _ Phil interjected gently. “You are your own before you’re anyone else’s. Before any other obligations you might have, or  _ think _ you have - to Chris, to the Fontana, to Starfleet, to that thing - ” he nodded at her abdomen, “ - you have an obligation to  _ yourself.  _ Whatever you decide to do, the person who gets the most out of that decision - good, bad, or neutral - is you.” Gen looked up at him. “Don’t leave yourself out of the equation.”

“That feels selfish.”

“Maybe so,” Phil said, “but why is that a bad thing? I think that when you’re talking about something with this great an impact on  _ you _ \- your body, your career, your relationships, all of that - you  _ have _ to go into it with some self-interest in order to make a sound choice.” He shrugged. “When you’re the person with the most to gain and lose, I think a little selfishness is called for.”

Gen nodded, looking thoughtful. She took a deep breath, wiped her palms on her pants, and said, “Could you call Chris?”

Phil flipped his comm. “Boyce to Pike.”

_ “Pike.” _

All right, so he was still pissed. “Please report to medbay.”

There was a pause.  _ “I’m on my way.” _

Phil hopped down off the biobed and retrieved a hypo. “For your headache,” he said. “It’s safe for use in pregnancy, so no matter what you decide, it’ll be fine.” He depressed it gently into Gen’s neck.

She rubbed the spot, still a little dazed. “Thank you.”

Chris came into medbay a moment later. He made ever-so-brief eye contact with Phil, then directed his attention to Gen. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

Gen looked to Chris and ripped off the bandaid. “I’m pregnant.”

Chris stood frozen for a few seconds, a horrified, uncomprehending expression on his face, and then collapsed to the floor like a ton of bricks, out cold.

Phil sighed. “Oh, you sweet disaster,” he muttered, heaving his best friend’s taller and more muscular frame onto Gen’s biobed with difficulty.

“Is he okay?” Gen asked, jumping down to make room for Chris.

“He’s fine,” Phil pronounced, running a tricorder over Chris’ body.  _ Yep. Hormonal residue only. No implant to be found. Dammit.  _ “Just in shock.”

“I did say he’d freak out.”

“Yeah, I thought that might happen.” Chris moaned lightly, then cracked his eyes open just a peek. He made to sit up, but Phil pushed him back down. “Not on your life. Not yet.”

Chris’ eyes flitted from Phil, to the tricorder, to Gen, and back again. “Pregnant? I mean... _ pregnant?” _

Gen winced. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Chris’ eyes were saucer-wide. “How, um... _ god,  _ how far along are you?”

He’d asked the question of Gen, but she turned to Phil to answer. “Six menstrual weeks, give or take a day,” he said. “Very early.”

Chris shook his head like a dog. “Okay, next question:  _ how the fuck did this happen?” _

Phil opened his mouth to speak, but Gen intercepted him. “Beta Helbsea.”

Chris leaned up on his elbows, then sat fully, seemingly not noticing Phil’s steadying hand on his back keeping him upright. “The radiation?” he asked, turning to Phil. “But you said the inoculations would protect us.”

“They did,” Phil said. “Cordamuzaprine is the reason you aren’t burnt to a crisp. It’s almost never used - I’d never prescribed it before I gave it to the three of you - but it protects organic tissue like a dream. But, as it turns out, not all  _ in _ organic tissue. The iota radiation chewed straight through your contraceptive implants. You were fertile again by the time you hit the shuttlebay doors.”

“How did you not figure this out  _ sooner?!”  _ Chris burst.

_ Ah, yes, now it’s apparently my fault,  _ Phil’s id said waspishly in his brain.  _ Don’t rise to the bait,  _ his ego countered.

“It wasn’t established in the medical literature, and you haven’t been in here as a patient since then for me to find out. Neither has Gen, until today. Mendez has, but didn’t have an implant. Without scanning you, I wouldn’t have had any way to know.”

Chris scrubbed his face with his hands, then looked to Gen, who was looking at her feet. “I just came in because I had a headache,” she said. “I had no idea.”

There was a fine tremor in Chris’ hands, a barely-there indicator of exactly  _ how _ panicky he really was right now. “What are you...I mean...we’ve gotta talk about this, I guess.”

Gen nodded slightly.

“You’re off on medical leave for the rest of the day,” Phil told her. “When you make a decision, let me know. If you have questions between now and then, my door’s always open, okay?”

Gen tried to manage a smile. “Thanks, Dr. Boyce.”

She and Chris made to leave medbay, but Chris turned back and looked at Phil, and for just a moment, it was like their shouting at each other last week had never happened, like crisis had overridden Chris’ stubbornness and anger and Phil’s melancholy and jealousy.

Chris was scared. Chris needed his best friend.

_ Love. No matter what. _

Even now.

_ It’s gonna be okay,  _ Phil tried to say with his eyes.  _ I’m here for you. _

~

_ Don’t just ask someone how you can help and leave it at that. If you know what they need, just do it. _

After a few days of radio silence from both Chris and Gen, and a few days of his own personal processing of the idea that Chris might be having a child soon, Phil figured out how to give Chris what he needed. He went to Chris’ quarters, nudged his knee to get him to scoot over on the sofa, sat down, and poured them both some scotch.

“What are you doing here?” Chris managed.

Phil looked at him.  _ Oh, Chrissy.  _ “Sometimes a man will tell his bartender things he’d never tell his doctor.”

Chris stared into the scotch for a moment, seemingly hypnotized, then took a swig. “Did you tell Russell?”

“Tell him what?” Phil replied smoothly. “That Lieutenant Commander Lopez came to see me a few days ago for an analgesic for her headache? Why would I do that?”

Chris’ exhausted eyes went soft. “Thank you, Phil.”

“I’ll tell him if or when it becomes relevant to the operations of the Fontana. Otherwise, it’s none of his goddamn business.” Phil sipped his scotch and shook his head. “Invasive bullshit reg, anyway.”

Chris put his head between his knees, lacing his fingers on the back of his neck, his fingers threading into his hair. “She still doesn’t know what she’s gonna do.”

“I know.”

“I really,  _ really _ don’t want her to have it.” Chris’ voice was a hair over a whisper. “That makes me a selfish prick, doesn’t it?”

“There’s a difference between being selfish and being honest,” Phil responded. “You know the ultimate decision has to be hers, right?”

“Of  _ course _ I know that.”

“Okay, so if you know that, then having an opinion just makes you honest,” Phil said gently. “You only become a selfish prick if you start issuing demands about it.”

“God, Phil,” Chris groaned. “You know my track record. You know I’m goddamn useless here. Can you actually see me as a father?”

A memory popped up in Phil’s mind, one that he hadn’t even realized was quite so vivid, of Chris cradling that terrified, traumatized survivor of the Tarsus massacre, lifting him onto a gurney, stroking his hair, calling him  _ son.  _ Could Phil see Chris changing diapers and dealing with potty-training? No, not really. Could Phil see Chris  _ fathering _ someone, though? Apparently, yeah, he could.

“I could get used to it,” he finally responded.

“I’m not sure I could,” Chris said. “I’ve been in firefights, I’ve been held hostage, I’ve been shot at, but I’ve  _ never  _ been this goddamn  _ scared.” _

“Everybody in your position always is,” Phil said, sipping his drink. “Everybody in Gen’s position even more so.”

“I know, and I’m trying to be there for her, but  _ god,  _ the uncertainty. It’s like walking a fucking tightrope.”

Phil sighed, unable to resist laying a hand carefully between Chris’ shoulder blades, feeling the muscles knotted with anxiety. “I know, Chris. But listen - no matter how this ends, it’s gonna be fine, okay? I’ve got your back in this. Both of you. Whether that means doing what needs doing off the record, or turning into Uncle Phil, heaven help us all.” He smiled gently. “You and Gen are both sharp and capable. You can handle this. But you’ve also got support. Don’t forget that.”

Chris looked up at Phil. His eyes were  _ so  _ tired, the frown lines really starting to take hold, and his hair looked more silver than gold, at least in this light, and Phil loved him. “Listen,” Chris said, “about a couple weeks ago, I’m sorry I - ”

Phil shook his head. “Don’t. I think we both said things we wish we hadn’t. Water under the bridge, okay?”

Chris nodded. “Okay.”

~

“‘re you sleepy?”

“Mmrph. No.”

“Mmkay. Me neither.”

“Jus’ restin’ my eyes.”

“‘Kay.”

~

They’d fallen asleep on Chris’ couch, as they’d done countless times before, twin cricks in their necks and the scotch on the coffee table going untouched, when they both woke to the sound of Phil’s comm.

_ “Lopez to Boyce.” _

On instinct alone, a ten-percent-awake Phil’s hand flew to his comm. “Boyce here. What’s up, Gen?”

Gen’s voice sounded tight and breathy.  _ “Something’s wrong. I need a beam to medbay. Now.” _

Phil and Chris looked at each other for the length of a heartbeat, then ran at a full clip out of Chris’ quarters and down the hall to the turbolift. “We’re coming, Gen. Sit tight for transport. Boyce to transporter room one. Beam Lieutenant Commander Lopez directly to medbay.”

The route to medbay took no more than two minutes, but as in all crises, it felt intolerably long. When they arrived, Gen was hunched on a biobed, clutching her stomach, an impressive bloodstain creeping over the silver polymer of the biobed. Chris froze in the doorway, alarmed at the sight.

“Hey, Gen,” Phil said gently as he approached her. “We’re here. When did this start?”

“I’m not sure,” she said tightly. “I thought I might’ve been spotting when I went to the bathroom before I fell asleep, and I woke up like this.”

Phil scanned her.  _ BP normal, heart rate high-normal, temp okay, H&H fine, no evidence of internal bleeding, prostaglandins elevated, quants down - way down, actually.  _ “Is the pain worse on one side than the other, or the same all over?”

“Same all over,” Gen answered.  _ “Jesus, _ I haven’t had cramps like this since I was twelve.”

Chris made his way over now, slowly, putting a comforting hand on Gen’s head and looking at Phil with a questioning glance.

“Miscarriage,” Phil diagnosed lowly.

Chris dropped into a squat next to the biobed, no doubt dizzy from the adrenaline crash. Gen clapped a hand to her forehead and gave a weird sigh-laugh hybrid of relief. “Am I okay?” she asked.

Phil took his own deep breath. “Medically, you’re fine,” he said. “It looks like more blood than it is. I can give you something for the cramping, but your body’s doing all the work for you.”

Gen winced. “I would  _ very much _ like something for the cramping, thank you.”

Chris stood back up, on shaky knees, and kissed Gen on the forehead. “She’s really okay?” he asked Phil. “It’s really over?”

Phil nodded. “Yes. On both counts.” He turned to Gen, who presented her neck obediently. “A little panaprine.”

Gen looked up at him, her eyes bright but dazed. “I guess sometimes the universe knows what’s best for you, even when you don’t.”

Phil smiled at her, feeling his own adrenaline crash hit him. “I guess so.”


	17. Chapter 17

Phil loved space. Phil loved the beauty, the exoticism, the curiosity, the yin and yang, and the challenge of space, and frankly, Phil didn’t quite know what to make of people who lacked even a  _ little _ fascination with the wonder of the universe. But as much as Phil loved space, Phil  _ loved _ being home on Earth. Phil loved the smell of cut grass and saltwater, the sound of birds, home-cooked food, the cycle of the seasons. He was a Cancer, and true to form, he was very attached to his creature comforts. So being back on  _ terra firma, _ after his brief but  _ exceptionally  _ stressful tour on the Fontana, felt damn delightful.

His best friend, on the other hand, was born to be in space, and an earthbound Chris was a chronically bored and grumpy Chris. It really killed Phil’s high from being home.

“This is  _ absurd,  _ Philip,” Chris moaned over a video comm one night, while Phil lay in the on-call room. “I just left a  _ two-hour meeting _ about the specific wording of security protocols during science expeditions. Not changes to the actual  _ protocols -  _ just the  _ wording.  _ It’s all stylistic bullshit and it did  _ not _ require the attention of five senior officers. A yeoman with a thesaurus would’ve fixed it in fifteen minutes.” He sighed spectacularly. “Earth is making me crazy. I’m so  _ bored.” _

Phil laughed lightly. “You wanna come help me? I’ve got three people in labor right now.”

“And you’re sitting here talking to me?”

“Labor is a slow process, Chrissy.”

“Tell that to your little sister.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Touche.”

“I just wanna  _ go _ somewhere,” Chris muttered. “I’m sick to death of being surrounded by walls.”

“There are walls on starships, too, but I get your point.” Phil paused to yawn. “Maybe we should do that, then.”

“Do what?”

“Go somewhere,” Phil said. “I have, like, a year of leave in the bank. You’re above me; you’ve probably accrued more.”

“That sounds so nice,” Chris sighed. “Where would we go?”

Phil shrugged. “You pick.”

_ “Dr. Boyce, please report to room 129 stat.” _

Phil shook himself a little. “Gotta go.”

Chris nodded. “Talk later.”

Three hours, two babies, and one gnarly c-section later, Phil was attempting to chart at the nurses’ station, awake only by the most generous of definitions, when a figure of gold and silver and black started moving his way, a pair of huge to-go cups in his hands.

“I went to the Night Owl,” Chris said, handing one of the cups over. “I have it on good authority that the coffee here is shit.” He leaned on the counter and smiled.

Phil’s heart warmed. “What are you doing here? At after midnight?”

Chris shrugged. “The hospital technically counts as a change of surroundings.”

_ Oh, Chris.  _ “At least you didn’t chuck yourself down the stairs to get here.”

“Yeah, thank you for becoming a doctor and not forcing me to get more creative.”

Phil laughed, then took a sip of his coffee - one cream, no sugar,  _ perfect. _

“Also, I made plans for us,” Chris said, sipping his own coffee.

“Plans?”

“Plans.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “What kind of plans?”

“Vacation kind of plans,” Chris said. “Check your messages.”

He did. There was a single message in his inbox, forwarded from Chris, containing travel plans. Phil looked up to Chris, heart melting into a puddle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Phil sat back in his chair, looking at Chris, feeling his eyes go dewy and happy. “We could go anywhere,” he said softly. “We could go to Vegas or Paris or Tahiti or Risa, and you wanna go to Waterville, Maine, population twenty thousand?”

Chris looked down at his coffee cup, smiling a little bashfully. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I do.” When he looked back up at Phil, there was a little color in his cheeks. “Thought it’d be nice, you know? To be with good people.”

Phil looked at Chris for a long, soft moment, then stood up, came around the counter, and hugged him, as hard as his exhausted body would allow.

Two weeks, some hastily-arranged leave with HQ, and several conversations with his family later, each of them ending with his mother getting misty and saying  _ I’m just so excited to see you two!,  _ Phil was on a shuttle to Augusta with ten days worth of clothing in his duffel and Chris’ faint snores rumbling next to him. It was damn near heaven.

The second they stepped past security, Mom was on them, hugging Chris with all her might and murmuring to him softly. From the side, Phil could see Chris’ smile as he buried his face in her neck, periodically nodding and responding to whatever Mom was saying.

“She’s been so worried about him,” Dad clarified during his embrace of Phil. “Divorce, his  _ maman _ dying, all of that.”

“Me too,” Phil admitted softly. In Mom’s arms, Chris laughed. “But I think he’s better now.”

“And you,” Mom said, moving to Phil. “You been behaving yourself?”

“Have I ever?”

Mom grinned, folding Phil into her arms. “That’s my boy.”

The entire clan came for dinner at the Boyce family home that evening, a celebration of sorts for the far-flung Boyce children’s homecoming, temporary though it was. Spending time with his family filled some of the deepest and most significant voids he’d felt in the past several years, but it also just made him  _ ache,  _ to look around at all he hadn’t been there to see. Dad had looked cancer in the face, laughed, and come out victorious. Mom had retired from her engineering job and begun a series of speaking engagements on the application of science to self-defense. Sarah had eloped, finally finding a man she loved who treated her the way she deserved after a lifetime of false starts. Charlie’s eldest daughter Audrey, the little girl who’d once nursed a crush on Chris, was now nearly thirty and engaged. Lily had, if it was possible, started to look even  _ more  _ like Mom.

He’d missed so much.

_ Try not to look back with regret. Try to look forward with memory. _

“You look tired, sweetheart.” Mom materialized next to him, two cups of coffee in her hand, and handed one to him.

Phil smiled. “Just jet lag. It’s a long trip.” He took a sip of his coffee. A laugh from the living room drew his attention; he turned and looked fondly at Chris, who’d worked himself up into uncontrollable fits of giggles at something Sarah was telling him.

Mom smiled that distinct  _ Mom _ smile at him and cupped his cheek. “Oh, sweet prince,” she sighed. “You’re forty-three years old and you’ve got the same instinct toward love that you did the day you were born.”

Phil’s smile widened, and he slipped his arm around his mom, squeezing her shoulder.  _ Love. No matter what.  _ “Guess you named me well.”

“It suits you.” Mother and son fell quiet for a moment, just listening and watching the family interact in the living room as Dad stood at the stove behind them, quietly seasoning his pasta sauce. Mom’s eyes traced the line of sight from Phil to Chris, and she wrapped her arm around Phil’s waist. “Do you think you’ll ever tell him?”

Phil looked at his mother. “Tell him what?” he said dumbly.

“That you love him,” she said unblinkingly. “That you’ve always loved him.”

Phil bent his head, looking into his coffee cup. “No,” he said softly. “No. Why would I? What would it accomplish?”

“Speaking your truth is always an accomplishment,” Mom said gently. “Unburdening yourself is always an accomplishment.”

“Is it, though?” Phil asked. “It seems to me that it’s just shifting the burden to him.” He shook his head. “What is he supposed to do with that information, you know? If I’d thought there was even a sliver of a chance, I’d tell him, but there’s not. I had to accept that twenty years ago.”

“Oh, Phil,” Mom sighed, tilting her head and smoothing her son’s hair fondly. “For a man so dedicated to helping other people, you sure do live in your own head sometimes.”

Phil frowned at her. “What?”

Mom smiled. “Chris doesn’t look at you like a best friend, honey. He doesn’t look at you like a brother, even. He looks at you like you’re his soulmate, like you’re the light and the warmth in his life. He looks at you with this  _ relief _ in his eyes, like he’s thinking to himself  _ thank god, Phil’s here, so it’s okay.  _ He looks at you with love - the kind of love that’s so rare and so precious that you don’t know it exists until you’re experiencing it.” She shook her head. “I think you spend so much time checking yourself, trying to be sure you’re not saying too much with your looks, that you forget to read his.”

Phil looked down, watching the cream in his coffee make lazy swirls. “He’s not into men, Mom,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, nearly drowned out by the family talking in the other room. “I have no reason to believe he’s even the slightest bit bi. And trust me, I’ve  _ looked _ for reason to believe.”

“Fair enough,” Mom said. “So why does he look at you like your dad looks at me? Why does he look at you like  _ you  _ look at  _ him?”  _ She smiled softly, squeezing Phil in a one-armed hug. “You’re a grown-up. You can make your own decisions. I’m just encouraging you to open your eyes a little more. Who knows what you might uncover?”

Phil looked at his mom - this petite, brilliant, bold, spitfire of a seventy-four year-old woman, who took no shit and blazed her own trail and said  _ fuck you  _ to anyone who told her she was going the wrong way - and tried not to let his eyes tear up. He set his coffee cup down and wrapped his arms fully around his mom. “When did you get so sappy?” he said - Boyce for  _ thank you. _

“Quit being a little shit and pretend you enjoy spending time with your mother.” Boyce for  _ you’re welcome. _

~

After five days of sleeping late, eating too many calories because Dad’s cooking was just too good, and spending time in comfortable surroundings with people they loved, Phil and Chris decided to drive down to Bar Harbor and spend a couple of days hiking in the national park. Chris had said he was sick of walls; Phil figured you couldn’t get more wall-less than two-hundred square kilometers of woods, ocean, and mountains. It was late autumn and the leaves were nearly at their peak of brilliant kaleidoscopic color, and between that, the crispness and cleanliness of the air, and the gentle sounds of wind and water and breath and heartbeat, there was an unmatched serenity to be found in the park.

Chris seemed to think so, too, though he spent most of their first day in the park in relative quiet, seeming to just take in the sights and sounds around him, as if trying to absorb the peace of his surroundings by osmosis. Phil followed his lead and sank into a state that wasn’t quite as deep as true meditation, but was certainly more mindful than everyday life.

As was typical for him when he was pensive, when Chris spoke, it was unprompted, a little insight into what was on his mind at the moment.

“You were right.”

They were atop a low rocky formation, looking out at the brown-orange-red valley below them, and Phil turned to Chris. “About what?”

Chris didn’t turn away from the valley. “About Gen,” Chris answered. “About me. You were right. I  _ was _ falling for her. I just didn’t see it.” He puffed out a derisive laugh. “No, that’s a lie. I saw it. I was just trying to deny its existence. Trying to tell myself no.”

Phil, who could still hear twenty-year-old echoes of trying to tell  _ himself _ no in that same regard, felt a pain lance his heart. “I get it.”

Chris shook his head. “I was an asshole to you,” he said quietly. “I know we said it was behind us, but I still think about it sometimes, and I just…” He sighed, long and low. “I’m sorry, Phil.”

_ When someone offers you honest contrition for a wrong, be gracious and accept it. _

“Chris, it’s okay,” Phil said gently. “We’re okay. Try not to kick your own ass about it. Give yourself permission to be imperfect.”

Chris snorted softly. “I’m not that good at letting myself be imperfect.”

“Oh,  _ do tell,”  _ Phil said sarcastically. Chris laughed.

~

“I don’t think I want to die in the chair.”

They were flat on their backs, looking up at the stars, when Chris said it. Phil rolled his head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

Chris swallowed. “I love those stars, Phil. I love them so much I can barely breathe. They’re home to me, more than Mojave ever was.” He sighed. “But as much as I love it up there, I don’t want to be a George Kirk. I don’t want to go out in a blaze of glory, or for third-graders to write papers on why I’m their hero.”

“Or doctoral candidates,” said Phil.

Chris smiled; even in the dark, he flushed a little. “Or doctoral candidates.”

Phil got it. The spotlight had never appealed to Chris. Command, absolutely; the glitz and fireworks and fame that came as a package deal with command, definitely not. “What  _ do _ you want, then?”

“To do my job,” Chris said softly. “To be a good officer. To be a good man. To be a good husband.”

“You wanna get married again?”

_ “God,  _ yes,” Chris breathed. “I know Siobhan and I weren’t right together and we never would’ve worked out, but  _ god.  _ Being in that kind of partnership was just... _ good.”  _ He smiled. “I liked knowing I had someone back here waiting for me. I’ve just gotta find one who doesn’t want to change me into someone I’m not.”

_ You’ve got me,  _ Phil mentally proclaimed.  _ You’ve always had me.  _ But the words got tangled up in his vocal chords and didn’t voice themselves.

“I want to be in love, Phil,” Chris confessed lowly. “I think I’m addicted to that feeling.”

Phil closed his eyes and took a breath. “It’s pretty potent,” he said knowingly.

“What do  _ you _ want?” Chris asked.

Phil looked back up at the stars. “To help people,” he said. “To catch babies. To have a little house on the water. To grow orchids and vegetables. To have a dog or two.” He paused, pursing his lips. “To grow old with the love of my life.”

To his right, Chris smiled softly. “Sounds perfect.”

~

“What do you miss most about Maine?”

Phil looked at the water around the little rock formation they were sitting on and sighed happily. “The calm,” he answered. “The peace. The seasons.” He nodded back to the electric autumnal landscape behind them. “We don’t get colors like that in California.” Chris smiled and nodded. “I miss snow. I miss the slower pace, everything not being so frantic all the time. I miss the smell of the ocean. I miss Dad’s cooking and Mom’s laugh.” He gave a sad smile and looked at Chris. “Guess I’m more homesick than I realized.”

Chris nodded again, patting Phil’s shoulder. “Yeah. I know, pal.”

Phil felt something warm wrap around his heart and squeeze tightly. “Is...is that why you wanted to come here on vacation?”

“No,” Chris said, shaking his head. “Well. That wasn’t the  _ whole  _ reason.”

“What was the rest of the reason?”

Chris was silent for a long moment, his left hand tracing a nonsense pattern into the rock they were sitting on. When he spoke again, his voice sounded fragile. “I think,” he said slowly, “that somewhere in my mind - somewhere I didn’t know existed - I thought there’d be a time when I’d see my mom again.” He swallowed tightly. “I barely remember her. I only thought about her every once in a while until she died. And I just...I don’t know. I think there was something in me that just  _ assumed  _ that one day the universe would right itself and I’d see her again. But now, that’s gone.” Chris’ eyes were dry, but his breath was shaky. “That’s gone and I can’t get it back. Mom’s gone. Grandpa’s gone. I haven’t talked to Dad in twenty years. I just...I feel like I don’t have a family anymore.” He looked back at Phil. “But I have  _ your _ family.”

Phil blinked and smiled. A tear he hadn’t known was there slipped down his cheek.

“I wanted to see them,” Chris said. “I know they’re not technically  _ mine,  _ but - ”

“They’re yours,” Phil interrupted. “They’re yours, Chris. Mom was calling you her fifth kid before she even met you and Lily told me two days ago that you’re her favorite brother. They are your family.” He smiled.  _ “We _ are your family.  _ I  _ am your family.”

Chris’ eyes filled with tears that he refused to let fall. He took a deep, tremulous breath and hugged Phil as tightly as he could.

~

“What did you think the first time we met?” Chris asked.

_ That the unknowable force that runs the show here, god or fate or the universe or whatever it is, was demanding my attention and telling me that you and I were meant to be at each other’s sides.  _ “That you were hot.”

Chris’ eyes bugged out at Phil. “Are you  _ serious?!” _

Phil shrugged nonchalantly, trying  _ very  _ hard not to blush. “Look in a mirror sometime, Chrissy. You’re a very pretty boy.”

“The first time you saw me, my nose was  _ broken in three places _ and I had blood dripping down my shirt,” Chris exclaimed. “Please tell me how that constitutes  _ hot.” _

“No, that was the  _ second _ time I saw you,” Phil corrected. “The  _ first _ time was on the first day of Mehl’s survival strategies class.”

Chris frowned for a moment, then raised his eyebrows and grinned as the memory visibly returned to him. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “I had completely forgotten about that. Your little social justice rage against the system.”

“It was not a  _ rage;  _ it was a  _ statement.”  _ Phil smirked. “All right. Turnabout. What did  _ you  _ think the first time we met?”

Chris folded his arms, leaning back and smiling, his body forming a long, slim line. “That you were the ballsiest person I’d ever seen. And that I wanted to learn from you.”

Phil smiled and shook his head. “Did you?”

“I’m trying,” Chris said. “Every day.”

~

“‘re you sleepy?”

“Mmrph. No.”

“Mmkay. Me neither.”

“Jus’ restin’ my eyes.”

“‘Kay.”

~

When they boarded the shuttle back to San Francisco a few days later, Phil’s parents took them to the airport. Dad hugged them tight, murmuring to them in French, kissing their cheeks and telling them to come home again soon. Mom hugged Chris first, and they had a whispered conversation that was too low for Phil to hear. When she moved to Phil, it was with a sad smile and open arms, and Phil fell into them, savoring that comforting  _ Mom  _ smell of hers, of pressed face powder and cinnamon.

“Any wisdom to take back with me?” Phil asked into her neck.

Mom laughed wetly. “Yes,” she whispered. “Love that boy for all he’s worth. Even when it’s hard.  _ Especially  _ when it’s hard.” 

_ Love. No matter what. _

She parted from him, cupping his cheeks. “I love you so much, my sweet prince.”

“I love you, Mom.”

Phil forced himself to pull away and move toward security. He tried not to look back, but he did, just once, just enough to see Mom watching after them, her smiling face glazed with tears, Dad’s arm around her shoulder.


	18. Chapter 18

“Commander, if you’d please raise your right hand and repeat after me.”

At the front of the room, Chris, decked out in his dress uniform and commendation medals, did as he was told by Professor Emeritus Living Legend All-The-Stars Admiral Jonathan Archer. Phil may have taken some liberties with his full title there. He couldn’t help it. He was just so _proud._

To Phil’s right, Laura smiled fondly at Chris’ minor fumbling of his own name in reciting the captain’s oath. She’d been Chris’ second phone call when he found out he was getting a promotion and his own ship, right between an excited, hyperactive puppy call to Phil and a (slightly) more sedate and dignified call to Maine. He’d wanted Laura to be his first officer, and she’d dropped everything to accept, bless her heart.

To his left, Rebecca Hart _beamed._

Chris and Becca had met six months ago, and for all Phil’s id wanted him to try to find fault with a woman Chris was dating, he just couldn’t do it. He genuinely liked her. She was the kind of person Phil would’ve liked being friends with even if she and Chris _weren’t_ seeing each other, a smart, thoughtful, funny woman, a terrific conversationalist who believed in social justice and even shared Phil’s disdain for olives.

And she _adored_ Chris. And Chris adored her right back.

Phil couldn’t deny that it stung a little to see the man he loved in love with somebody else, but it seemed different this time. Not only was that pain an old, familiar friend at this point, but the fact that Chris and Becca were so damn _good_ together eased it down to a dull ache. Siobhan hadn’t made Chris happy like this. Gen had been all one-sided. Even that girl he’d dated back at the Academy was a poor match. But Chris and Becca clicked like puzzle pieces, and knowing that put Phil into some weird self-soothing feedback loop, like a cat purring while she’s in pain. If Chris and Becca were in this for the long haul, Phil thought he might be able to be okay with it. That Becca was a damn good person who made Chris beautifully happy might be enough to numb him to his own heartbreak.

_Celebrate the joys of people that you love, even if you yourself are heartsick._

“Congratulations, Captain Pike,” Archer was saying, drawing Phil’s attention back to the front of the room.

_Captain Pike._ Chris’ grin was vibrant and beautiful. Phil cheered, very explicitly not giving a fuck about decorum. Becca put a hand over her heart. Laura turned to Phil, her expression soft and happy and _knowing,_ because she was Laura and she knew _everything._

_Remember, the keepers of your secrets know your secrets better than you do._

When the trio went to congratulate the Fleet’s newest captain, Becca reached him first. “Hello, _Captain,”_ she said with a teasing grin. Chris matched it and kissed her, a kiss that lay somewhere between _church wedding_ and _late night skin flick on channel fourteen._ Phil almost licked his lips, then thought better of it and pulled the lip balm out of his pocket.

“Hey, no PDA on HQ grounds!” Laura taunted.

Chris broke the kiss, looked at Laura, and raised one eyebrow teasingly. “I don’t know that your tone matches my stripes, _Commander.”_

Laura made a face that quickly melted into a smirk, then gave Chris a hug and a peck on the cheek before moving to the side and passing Chris over to Phil.

Phil held out his arms, and Chris fell into them, squeezing Phil tight enough that Phil could feel the happiness vibrating right off Chris’ body. “Congratulations, Chrissy,” he said softly. “I’m so proud of you.”

Chris smiled into Phil’s neck. “Thanks, Phil.”

They adjourned to a restaurant in San Rafael that was far too expensive, but what the hell; it was a celebration and one of them had just gotten a very nice pay raise. Most of the conversation was about the Lovell, the ship that was now Chris’ baby and was set to launch next month. Phil had only seen her in pictures, as she was still undergoing her final tweaks in Iowa before heading up to spacedock, but she was sleek and pretty and had a lot of technical features that made Chris and Laura both make some borderline obscene noises.

Late in the evening, when Becca stepped out to take a call from her editor and Chris went to the men’s room, Laura looked to Phil. “Hey. How are you doing with...you know. _Them?”_ She gestured vaguely toward the directions where Chris and Becca had vanished.

Phil looked down to his plate, chasing a wayward leaf of spinach with his fork. “She’s a good person,” he said neutrally. “She makes him happy.”

Laura nodded, but said, “Not really what I asked.”

Phil sighed. “Look, do I wish it was me? Yes. Desperately. But it’s not like I can do anything to change it. I can’t spend the whole rest of my life crafting perfect scenarios in my mind that will never come true; at best, I’ll waste what time I have with him, and at worst, I’ll lose him altogether. And as much as _this_ hurts, _that_ would be unsurvivable.” He shrugged slightly. “Becca’s wonderful. She loves Chris, and he loves her. I can’t exactly ask for more than that, so yeah, I’m okay with this.”

Laura smiled and shook her head. “Part of me wants to commend you on your integrity and devotion; another part of me wants to tell you to quit rubbing salt in your own wounds. I don’t know if I could take it, Phil. Being that close and knowing you can’t touch. How do you do it?”

Phil smiled sadly. “An absence of viable alternatives.”

“Number One, I forgot to tell you about the new shield configs,” Chris said excitedly, coming back to the table, abruptly ceasing all previous conversation. Laura said no more, but kept a critical, sympathetic eye trained in Phil’s direction.

~

Building the crew of the USS Lovell, NCC-1928, was kind of akin to arranging a family reunion of people Chris and Phil had worked with in the past, all of whom seemed to bring their own “plus-ones” along, new blood they’d found and bonded with since they’d all worked together last. Laura, of course, was to be Chris’ Number One, a turn of phrase he found hilarious and to which she responded with, “Do you even _remember_ my name at this point?” Spock, the green Vulcan ensign from the Fontana - no pun intended - was now a lieutenant commander and accepted a senior science officer position. Tharoor Singh was happy as a clam working in R&D on Mars, thank you very much, but pointed Chris in the direction of Caitlin Barry, an engineering wunderkind she’d hand-raised, for his chief engineer. Best of all, in Phil’s unashamedly biased opinion, Martha was coming back to him. Her daughter had followed her footsteps and was now in nursing school, so she now had the liberty to serve as his head nurse - or, as she put it, _“to run your medbay for you.”_ Phil couldn’t have been happier.

The first several missions on deck were little diplomatic milk-runs, the kind of short-haul, low-risk missions Starfleet typically sent a baby captain on, just to get their feet wet in the chair. HQ keeping him on that short a leash was the sort of thing that Phil expected would drive Chris absolutely batty, full of nervous energy to _go_ and _do_ and _explore._ Of course, that assumption was based on pre-Becca standards.

_Update your rubrics for anticipation periodically._

In a Becca-inclusive world, Chris kept the impatient squirming to a minimum. Having a long-term, non-‘Fleet, Earth-based girlfriend, and the desire to stay within comm range of her, seemed to temper that simmer in his blood to make a million little cracks in the universe and peek inside to understand what she was hiding. Phil didn’t quite know how to feel about that. How are you _supposed_ to feel when the fire in one’s eyes cools but gets supplanted by a rare and true contentment?

Being best friends with this man was sometimes better education than his entire psych degree.

As they were sharing a working dinner in Chris’ ready room one night, his terminal buzzed. Chris opened the message, and Phil watched his face fall slightly.

“What is it?” Phil asked.

Chris smiled sadly. “They’re sending us out for a year.”

Phil could hear the conflict in his voice. “Oh.”

Chris sighed, tugging one of his knees up to his chest. “They want us to survey a partially-charted area of the Beta quadrant,” he continued. “Skirting the edge of Klingon space. Looking for allies if things heat up. Plus the routine science and diplomacy stuff.” He pursed his lips.

Phil tried to flip the script a little. “Isn’t that a _good_ thing? I mean, we both know you’re getting sick of _come to the Federation, we have cookies_ missions. _This_ is the kind of exploration you love.”

Chris nodded somberly. “Yeah,” he said softly. “But it means I’m gonna lose Bec.”

“Plenty of officers have civilian partners,” Phil said. “You don’t think she’d wait?”

Chris scoffed slightly. “Would _you_ wait a year?”

_I’ve waited twenty; what’s one more?_ “Would she come with you? I bet you could get a dispensation - ”

“She’s terrified of flying,” Chris sighed. “And she’s got work on Earth. It just…” He shook his head sadly. “I really thought this might be the one that stuck.”

Phil’s heart cracked. “I’m sorry, Chris.”

Chris closed his eyes and nodded. “Guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

So it was _real damn strange,_ Phil thought, when launch day came and Chris and Becca passed him in the hall, arms around each other’s waists. “I...bzuh?”

Chris grinned the most bright and beautiful smile. “Look, Phil; I found a stowaway.”

Phil’s eyes grew wide. He looked to Becca, whose grin matched Chris’. “You’re coming with us?!”

Becca laughed, putting a hand on Chris’ chest. “I looked up some aviophobia meditation techniques and struck a deal with my editor,” she explained. “She’s an old romantic. We made it work.”

Phil smiled through the conflicted jumble of _but_ and _what?_ and _great_ and _shit_ in his mind and instead held his arms out for her. “Welcome aboard, then.”

~

For all Chris had said last year about not wanting to _die in the chair,_ to borrow his vernacular, he was a goddamn _phenomenal_ captain. He was a demanding but emphatically fair CO who not only wanted to see his crew excel, but who wanted to know they were _thriving,_ in senses personal and professional - exactly as you’d think the best bosses should be. Something in him had blossomed when he got command, Phil thought, like he finally had the missing piece to put all the little shards of his life together. He was strong and confident and _happy,_ god, so happy - probably happier than he’d been in all the years Phil had known him.

A fact Phil reasserted to himself. Regularly. Nightly. Let’s put it this way: When you’re in love with your best friend, and your best friend and his girlfriend live right next door to you, and the walls aren’t really as soundproof as advertised, it takes some regularly scheduled reminders that the person you love finally has the happiness he deserves to avoid a complete breakdown.

Phil was the first one in the briefing room that morning, Laura following a few minutes behind him. She was her usual professional, coiffed self, but her face looked exhausted, and she was nursing a mug of coffee.

“Morning, Laura,” Phil greeted.

Laura grunted, sitting next to him and flopping her head onto the table with a low _thunk._ “Tell me something, Philip,” she mumbled. “Has he gotten even _louder_ in the past seven - eight - whatever years? Or was I just _that_ drunk to have totally blocked that out?”

“Option C,” Phil answered, _cheers_ ing Laura’s coffee cup with his own. “Both of the above. You want a real challenge? Try sharing a wall with their bedroom.”

Laura looked at him, horrified. “You mean I’m _not_ on the shared wall with their bedroom?”

“You are not,” Phil answered. “The Lovell’s designer was a bit of a sadist, it seems.”

Laura shook her her head, taking a long sip of coffee. “I’m nominating you for sainthood.”

Phil snorted. “In which religion?”

“All of them.”

They giggled as the rest of the senior staff began to file into the briefing room, all in various states of obvious sleepiness (except for Spock, because Vulcan). Chris entered last, with a spring in his step that made Laura visibly restrain a groan.

“Morning, all,” Chris greeted. “This’ll be quick; we’ve only really got one thing on the agenda.” He moved over to a touchscreen and punched up a schematic of a small solar system, zooming in on the second planet therein. “Starfleet’s asked us to head to a planet called Damma II. M-class, population about five billion, most of them in the southern hemisphere of the planet. The Dammans applied for Federation membership a while back, but since they’re out here in the boonies, this is the first opportunity anyone’s had to personally survey them. Assuming all goes well, we can go ahead and confer their membership.”

“What do we know about them?” Laura asked, nursing her coffee.

“Warp-capable, but only just; they only started playing with antimatter about five years ago, and they haven’t actually used it much, though they’re working on it. People seem great. Friendly, egalitarian, peaceful.” He shrugged. “I think it’ll be pretty straightforward. I’ll be beaming down when we get there; Number One, I’d like you to come with me, and Lieutenant Ren, I’d like you there for security. Phil, I doubt we’ll be in any medical scrapes, but just in case, you got anybody who needs some field experience?”

Phil nodded. “What about Leah Frasier? She’s a new nurse and she’s fantastic.”

“Sweet. Brief her. Ensign Oliver, I’ve transmitted coordinates to the helm; set a course, warp four.”

Oliver nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“We’ll be there in about four days. Mr. Spock, I understand you have aspirations for the center seat?”

Spock nodded sedately. “It is logical for any crewmember to achieve proficiency in all areas in which he may serve.”

Chris smiled patiently. “Touche. Feel like being in charge while Number One and I are on the surface?”

In fairness, Phil had never _seen_ a Vulcan get nervous, but Spock’s eyebrow raise and stiffened posture certainly seemed to point in that direction. “Captain, Lieutenant Commander Barry outranks me in seniority, and Doctor Boyce in rank; would it not be - ”

“And I need Cait in engineering and Phil in medbay. Do you want the chair or not?”

Spock blinked several times in rapid succession. “Yes, Captain.”

“Super.” Chris looked to the rest of the senior staff, his expression slightly bemused. “Questions, comments, complaints?” When no one spoke, Chris nodded. “Dismissed.”

Phil’s day in medbay was pretty uneventful - routine physicals and vaccines, treating a couple of minor plasma burns from an engineering mishap, briefing Leah about her first away mission. He had dinner in the mess hall with Chris, Becca, and Laura, before heading back to his quarters, curling up on his sofa, and letting himself get sucked into a new novel he’d just started.

Just as Phil’s eyes were starting to get heavy, just as he was starting to regret having not already gotten out of his uniform and into bed, his comm buzzed. _“Pike to Boyce.”_

Phil flipped his comm. “What’s up, Chris?”

_“Just curious,”_ Chris said neutrally, _“is your paperwork still good for you to officiate marriages between Federation citizens?”_

Phil frowned. Why the hell would Chris be asking _that,_ of all things? “Yeah, it doesn’t expire. Why?”

There was a pregnant pause. Then: _“Report to the Captain’s quarters.”_

_That’s why._

For more than thirty years, Phil had thought that he’d never actually _formed_ any memories of falling through the ice as a kid, that the cold and the oxygen deprivation had just shut his hippocampus down outright. But in that moment, every single detail of that experience came rushing forward to meet him with the same speed at which he’d lost his grip on Sarah’s arm that day - the heart-stopping icy grip of the slush that surrounded him, his fruitless, desperate search for air, the hyperawareness of the fragility of that paper-thin curtain that separated life from death.

_This_ is how that had felt. _This_ is what that was like. And for the briefest second, some tiny, wailing part of Phil’s heart damned him for not stepping through that curtain when he was eleven, for not saving it from this brutal moment.

Phil did not remember responding to Chris. He did not remember his feet touching the floor as he walked out of his quarters and one door over - _right, left, right, left._ He did not remember chiming for entrance.

But he definitely remembered the door opening, seeing Chris’ beaming, _beautiful, so beautiful_ face, seeing Becca grinning hugely behind him and practically vibrating off the sofa, hearing bits and pieces of Chris’ words as they left his mouth.

“We couldn’t wait...I asked and she said yes.”

Phil stood. Phil blinked. Phil tried to remember how to breathe. “Did you?”

“I would’ve told you, but it was kind of a spur of the moment thing.”

_Breathe in. Breathe out._ “Well,” he said softly. _What do I say? What do I do?_ “I’m...I’m so happy for you both.”

Phil genuinely did not know whether or not that was a lie. It had been hard enough, he thought, to stand up next to Chris on his _first_ wedding day, to hand over the ring he’d slipped on Siobhan’s finger as he’d promised _her_ forever. But now, to be the person actually tasked with _marrying_ them, with binding Chris to another person forever...this felt like a cruelty he couldn’t quite wrap his arms around.

But then he looked at Chris’ beautiful face, with that infectious, genuine smile, and it took him out of himself for a moment.

_I love him with everything I am. He is happy. He is asking me to make him happier._

That was really all this was. Chris was asking his best friend to improve the quality of his life.

How could Phil say no?

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm his filling eyes and racing heart and tantruming soul, he forced a smile. “All right, Bec, come up here and stand next to Chris. If you two are doing this, you’re gonna do it right.”

Becca popped up and grabbed Chris’ hands, and they stood in front of Phil, giggling like school children instead of the early fortysomethings they actually were.

Phil swallowed. “You guys sure about this?”

They nodded.

Traditionally, in opposite-sex weddings, the groom said his vows first. It was probably for ancient patriarchal garbage reasons that Phil had never had the patience to look up, but every opposite-sex wedding he’d ever been to or officiated had included the groom taking the first turn.

But Phil couldn’t make himself do that. Not tonight. Not in this wedding.

“Do you, Rebecca Celeste Hart, take Christopher Vincent Pike to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” Becca broke in.

Chris cracked up. “He’s not done yet, babe.”

Phil continued, his voice low and solemn. “Do you vow that your commitment is given willingly, absolutely, and completely, to seize every opportunity, to cherish every moment, to learn and to laugh, to love freely, without reservation, without fear, and without confusion, to treasure and to trust, to carry and be carried, through wind and through fire, through the ecstasies and the miseries, through each glorious failure, each glorious victory, together as one?”

_Do you vow to give him everything I would?_ Phil added in his mind. _Everything I would, and then some? Everything his dear, good heart deserves? Because if you can make that promise, then maybe, maybe, I can survive this._

“I do,” Becca repeated.

_Oh, god._

Chris’ face was blurring behind a veil of tears, but Phil looked anyway, trying with all his might to communicate it with his mind - _I love you. This is killing me, but I’m doing it anyway, because I love you. I love you so much I’m marrying you to the woman you love, even though it’s breaking my heart. I love you._

“Do you, Christopher Vincent Pike, take Rebecca Celeste Hart as your lawfully wedded wife?”

_Maybe the thing that really makes true love beautiful and ethereal is the ability to let it go._

“Do you vow that your commitment is given willingly, absolutely, and completely - ”

_If I have this, even if nothing more, then I have enough._

“ - to seize every opportunity, to cherish every moment, to learn and to laugh, to love freely, without reservation, without fear, and without confusion - ”

_“Love you, Philly Boycey. Really love. Really you.”_

“ - to treasure and to trust, to carry and be carried, through wind and through fire - ”

_“Love that boy for all he’s worth. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”_

“ - through the ecstasies and the miseries, through each glorious failure, each glorious victory - ”

_interdependent, complementary, expansive, and beautiful_

“ - together as one?”

_You’re in love with Christopher Pike, and come what may, you will be until you draw your last breath._

Chris reached out and touched Becca’s chin with the comfort and familiarity of a forever partner. “Yeah, Phil. I really do.”

_Love. No matter what._

Phil closed his eyes, trying in vain to stem the tears falling down his cheeks, and took a breath. “By the power vested in me by the United Federation of Planets, I pronounce you married.”

Chris and Becca kissed. Phil didn’t see it. Becca threw her arms around Phil and kissed his cheek. Phil didn’t feel it.

Chris patted Phil on the shoulder. “You old softie,” he murmured, before wrapping Phil in his arms. There was something breathtakingly paradoxical about Chris holding Phil so tight as he was breaking his heart. “Thank you, Phil,” he whispered. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

Phil hugged Chris, breathing him in, memorizing the scent of that damn citrus shampoo like he didn’t already know it by heart. “Congratulations, Chris.”

The newlyweds were too wrapped up in each other to notice Phil slowly backing out of their quarters. As soon as the doors closed behind him, his knees buckled, and he had to grip onto the railing on the side of the hallway to keep from collapsing outright. He made his way not to the right, not to his own quarters, but to the left, to Chris and Becca’s other neighbor, to the only person on the ship who might have the foggiest idea what Phil was going through right now.

“Phi - oh, god, what is it? What’s happened?”

Phil couldn’t make his tongue form the words. Instead, he stumbled past Laura, through her sitting room, straight to her bathroom, where he immediately threw up.

_“Shit,”_ Laura breathed, pressing a cool washcloth onto the back of Phil’s neck and rubbing his back. “Phil, _Phil,_ honey, what the hell’s going on? Do I need to call one of your staff? I think Dr. Blume is on call - ”

Phil shook his head, gasping for breath. “I just...I just married Chris and Becca.”

Laura looked at him like he’d spoken another language. “What?”

Phil couldn’t say it again. He broke into the wrenching, full-body sobs that he couldn’t let himself have in Chris’ quarters.

Laura shook her head disbelievingly, her voice falling to a dangerous register. “That cocky, self-serving, _oblivious_ son of a bitch.” She crouched down next to Phil and hugged her to him. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry, Phil. I’m so, so sorry.”

Gently, so gently, Laura picked him up off the bathroom floor, walked him to the couch, cleaned up every trace of the mess he’d made, and held him in her arms as Phil sobbed until he couldn’t see.


	19. Chapter 19

Phil came to in the middle of the night. For a moment, he was confused by his unfamiliar surroundings and the crick in his neck. _Why am I here? What happened? Why does my head hurt so much?_

Then it came back to him in a horrible, nauseating rush.

He blinked, letting his eyes acclimate to the dark, and was able to make out Laura’s silhouette at the other end of the couch. She was awake, reading something on a PADD, her right hand resting on Phil’s knee, protective and soothing. It reminded him vividly of Sarah soothing him to a restless sleep after Eli had broken up with him in grad school. God, he _needed_ a surrogate Sarah right now, and Laura was filling the void so, so well.

_Count your blessings. They are more numerous than you realize._

Phil’s stirring caught Laura’s eye, and she put her PADD down and gave him her full, gentle attention. “Hey there. How you feeling?”

Phil blinked his scratchy eyes a couple of times. “I’m not really sure yet,” he said honestly. God, his voice sounded raw. “What time is it?”

Laura looked to the chronometer. “Almost 0300,” she answered. Phil nodded, rubbing his swollen eyes. “Listen,” Laura continued, “do you want me to call you off shift today? We’re flying in a straight line until we get to Damma II; medbay can handle itself for a day.”

Phil shook his head halfway through her question. “I need to work,” he whispered.

_When in need of a distraction, find a cause._

Laura visibly thought Phil should, in fact, take the day off, but nodded nevertheless. “Okay.”

Phil let out a long breath and shook his head. “God, why am I even upset?” he muttered. “I haven’t lost anything. Not really. It’s not like I have anything to grieve.”

Laura frowned, putting a hand on his back. “Phil, you just went through a trauma. Of _course_ you’re upset.”

 _“Trauma,”_ Phil scoffed. “I just officiated my best friend’s wedding. That’s not a _trauma.”_

“This is more complicated than that and you know it,” Laura said, tugging her knees up to her chest. “Your heart clearly considers it traumatic.”

“Yeah, well, my heart is stupid,” Phil argued. “Tarsus, the Kelvin, the Eugenics Wars - _those_ people went through trauma. This isn’t trauma. This is…” He flailed mentally for the right word. “Some weird kind of self-pity.”

Laura was quiet for a moment, seemingly staring off into space, her hand continuing its slow, comforting circles between Phil’s shoulder blades. Finally, she spoke again.

“You have two patients,” Laura said. “Patient A just learned the baby she’s carrying has died. Patient B was raped. Two very different traumas, both of them awful beyond the comprehension of most of us.” Laura looked at Phil and shrugged. “Do you think Patient A thinks Patient B’s heart is stupid? Or vice versa?”

“No, of course not.”

“Whose trauma is bigger? Is the rape survivor you’re treating more deserving of your time, energy, compassion than the patient who’s lost her baby?”

Phil shook his head. “No. You can’t compare traumas.”

“Exactly,” Laura said. _“You can’t compare traumas._ That’s the appropriate word for a rude, brutal shock that causes pain and grief. Yes, Tarsus was _absolutely_ traumatic. The Kelvin was _absolutely_ traumatic. And what happened to you last night? _Was traumatic._ Your head and your heart couldn’t care less where this event falls on some imaginary hierarchy; they’re just trying to process it as best they can.” She stroked his hair, exactly like Mom had always done. “Your heart is _not_ stupid, Phil. It’s just wounded. You deserve kindness. The same kindness you give to your patients every single day? Try to turn it back around to yourself.”

Phil nodded slowly. Laura had a point. He tried to smile, though he wasn’t quite certain if he managed it. “Why aren’t _you_ the ship’s counselor?”

Laura smiled, hugging Phil to her. “I thought about it, actually. I was deemed _too unapproachable.”_

“That,” Phil mumbled, “is the _last_ word I’d pick for you.”

Laura smiled, then sighed. “I’m gonna be pretty unapproachable with our fearless leader today, I can tell you that. _God,_ I’m pissed at him.”

“Don’t blame him,” Phil said reflexively. “It’s not like he knows anything about this.”

“How is that even _possible,_ though? He’s the smartest, most strategic, most observant officer I’ve ever worked with, but something like _this_ slips under his radar?”

“That’s Chris,” Phil said softly. “Level-headed genius in public, sweet disaster in private.” He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. “He’s happy. It was the right thing to do.”

Laura _tsk_ ed. “Oh, honey. You are pure superego.”

“My criminal record begs to differ,” Phil corrected. “Although I do wish the damn thing would shut up sometimes.”

~

By the start of alpha shift, the entire crew knew. Chris’ yeoman, Noor, had dispersed a shipwide message to everyone’s terminals: _“Captain Pike and Rebecca Hart eloped last night in a private ceremony officiated by Dr. Boyce. Please be sure to congratulate the happy couple when you see them!”_

Phil read the message in his office, then looked up darkly. “Computer,” he said to his replicator, “fifteen-hundred milligrams of calcium carbonate, oral administration.” Two tablets fizzled into existence; Phil swallowed them. They did not quell the aching in his gut. He was unsurprised.

Laura had been right; there wasn’t much going on in medbay, and certainly nothing that required Phil’s presence, so the day consisted mostly of finding random things to do and doing them. Deep-cleaning the biobeds and sterilizing instruments weren’t exactly tasks of Phil’s paygrade, but they occupied his hands and his mind, which was really all he was asking for right then. His staff was quieter, spoke in gentler voices, and cut him a bit of a wide berth the entire shift. Phil wasn’t sure if it was just because they could tell he was out of sorts, or if they were extrapolating _why_ he was out of sorts.

(He was sure Martha knew why. Like all the other badass women in his life, Martha knew everything.)

Phil didn’t see Chris until he and Laura stopped by medbay that afternoon, Chris with a blazing grin and Laura with storm clouds above her head. “Hiya. We’re here for our shots.”

Phil just blinked at him. “Huh?”

Chris frowned. “Our VFH complex vaccines?” he supplied. “You wanted us to get our boosters before we go down to Damma?”

“Oh. Shit. Yeah.” Phil shook his head, retrieving the hyposprays. “Sorry. Brain’s a little slow to helm today.”

Chris seemed bewildered by Laura’s exceptionally icy behavior, especially because she was her usual soft, kind self with Phil. After she’d gotten her vaccine and left medbay, Chris turned to Phil with his arms akimbo and a thoroughly baffled expression. “Hello, and welcome to another edition of _How’d I Piss Off My XO Today?”_

Phil managed something that vaguely resembled a smile. “Make nice with her,” he warned, giving Chris his shot, “or this’ll be a long damn away mission.”

Chris sighed. “Women confuse me.”

 _“People_ confuse you.”

Chris gave a conciliatory nod. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

~

_“Lieutenant Commander Spock to Dr. Boyce.”_

Phil grunted awake. It was four in the _goddamn_ morning. He fumbled for his comm and tried not to sound too peeved to have had his sleep interrupted. “Boyce here. How can I help you, Spock?”

_“Please report to the ready room at once.”_

Phil resisted the urge to whine. “On my way.”

After a brief debate over whether or not to put his uniform on - ending in _fuck it, did I mention it’s four in the morning? -_ Phil made his way to the ready room. As soon as he walked in the door, his feet fixed themselves to the floor at the sight before him. Spock sat behind Chris’ desk, fingers steepled, a look of what Phil could only call _concern_ on his face. Cait Barry sat on the other side of the desk, though Phil could only see her raucous hair from the back. She had one arm around Becca, who was sobbing hysterically.

Panic clutched at Phil’s heart. “What happened?” he burst.

“Doctor,” Spock said primly, “I regret to report that we have lost contact with the away team.”

The images that accosted Phil’s mind - _Chris sick, Chris injured, Chris in pain, Chris dead -_ were graphic and brutal. “Lost contact?”

“Affirmative. The away team was beamed to the designated coordinates to rendezvous with the Damman representatives. Our sensors detected their life signs, as well as those of several Dammans. Their life signs are no longer detectable, and the captain did not make his pre-scheduled 2300 status update.”

 _Chris sick, Chris injured, Chris in pain, Chris dead._ “What the hell happened?”

“Lieutenant Commander Barry and I spoke with a Damman representative who claims that their officials arrived at the rendezvous coordinates approximately five minutes past the scheduled time, and that none of the Lovell’s crew was present at the site.” Spock paused, looking uncomfortable. “I had assumed that the Dammans whose lifesigns were detected alongside the away team were government representatives. Clearly, they were not, and this was a ruse.”

 _Chris sick, Chris injured, Chris in pain, Chris dead._ “Can we send down another team?” Phil asked desperately. “I’ll go. I’ll go right now, if it’ll help - ”

“The Dammans wish to conduct their own investigation without our involvement. There are apparently several rogue groups who possess weaponry that outmatch our own considerably and they are concerned for our safety if a firefight develops.” Spock inclined his head. “As a demonstration of good faith, I have acceded to their request for now.”

 _“Fuck ‘good faith!’”_ Phil snapped. “We have _four officers_ down there, including our _leadership team,_ potentially in the custody of one of those _rogue groups!”_

Spock raised an eyebrow. “The Damman leadership has done nothing to warrant our mistrust - ”

“Sure, except _losing our people.”_

“- and to send yet more of the Lovell’s crew down to investigate this matter without arms commensurate with those of the Dammans jeopardizes yet more of our officers,” Spock continued. “I will not oversee such a tactically unsound sacrifice. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

“That’s not how Starfleet works and _you know it,”_ Phil spat. “Starfleet is all about _I give my life for you; you give your life for me; nobody gets left behind._ Jesus _Christ,_ Spock, haven’t you learned _anything_ from serving under Chris and Laura?”

_Chris sick, Chris injured, Chris in pain, Chris dead. Laura sick, Laura injured, Laura in pain, Laura dead._

“Indeed, I have,” Spock responded impassively. “I have learned that the application of logic to crisis situations is essential to the most advantageous outcome.”

“Oh, _fuck_ your logic.” Phil made his way to Becca, kneeling down in front of her.

“Doctor, Captain Pike left me in command of the Lovell on his departure and your last statement is a clear act of insubordination - ”

Phil ignored Spock. _Be the calm in the storm._ “Bec. Look at me.” She did, her eyes swollen and full of tears. “This is _not_ over and we are _not_ giving up.”

“ - I cannot permit your words and your egregious behavior to go unchallenged - ”

“I know. I know, this is scary as hell. I’m scared, too. But you know Chris.” Phil tried to smile. “You know he doesn’t take shit. You know he’s got the hardest head this side of the Orion system. You know he’s not gonna let a bunch of punks defeat him.”

Becca nodded, grabbing on to Phil and holding him tight, sobbing into his pajama top.

“ - I am placing you on report, effective immediately, and confining you to quarters when you are not on duty, unless you would prefer the brig.”

Phil rolled his eyes, glaring at Spock and raising his voice a little. “D’you know how many times I’ve been arrested for standing up against bullshit like yours, Spock? Jail doesn’t scare me.”

“As you wish.” Spock tapped the wall comm. “Security, please report to the ready room.”

Phil just kept holding Becca, as Cait Barry stroked her hair from behind. “I didn’t even tell him goodbye,” Becca whimpered. “I was taking a nap when he left. I didn’t even tell him I loved him.”

 _Me neither._ “He knows, Bec. I promise. He knows.”

Two redshirts arrived, phasers drawn. Spock turned to them. “Please escort Dr. Boyce to the brig.”

Becca held him tighter. Phil looked at the security officers calmly. “I’ll be with you in a moment, gentlemen.”

~

Phil didn’t sleep for eighty-seven hours. Realistically, that was probably untrue; it may well have been that Phil’s mind shut off enough for minutes at a time to technically count toward his sleep quota. Regardless, he definitely didn’t get enough sleep to measure in hours.

_Chris sick. Chris injured. Chris in pain. Chris dead._

Spock had sprung Phil from the brig after only a few hours, _“at Mrs. Pike’s insistence,”_ with a brief lecture on the value of logic over emotion to which Phil did not listen. Phil immediately went to Chris and Becca’s quarters, where Becca was only slightly less hysterical than she had been in the ready room. Phil hugged her and cried with her in the privacy afforded to him by closed doors until she finally fell into an unquiet sleep. He left her a note, imploring her to call him anytime, day or night, and went to work.

Medbay was quiet and tense. Phil’s staff looked up as he walked through the doors, all of them with variations of the same quasi-pitying look on their faces.

Phil nodded grimly. “As you were.”

He went into his office and sat at his desk, head in his hands, very aware of his own heartbeat. He pulled out his comm, set it on the desk, and stared at it.

“I won’t ask how you’re doing,” Martha’s voice said from the doorway. “I’ll just say I’m here for you if you need me.”

Phil nodded, closing his eyes. “Thanks, Martha.”

“Wanted to let you know I’m putting Ensign White Bear on temp leave.”

Phil nodded again. “That’s fine. Is he okay?”

Martha sighed. “He and Leah have a bit of a thing going on,” she said. “He’s...well.”

Phil let out a low breath. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Martha gracefully slipped out of Phil’s office, shutting the door behind her. Once he was alone again, Phil opened his comm, leaving it on his desk.

“Boyce to Pike. Chris, come in.” He paused. “Boyce to Zoss. Laura, can you hear me? Boyce to Frasier. Leah, answer me. Boyce to Ren. Emara, please respond.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Boyce to Pike. Boyce to Pike. _Boyce to Pike, dammit, Christopher, answer me!”_ The dam broke, and his tears overflowed his eyes. “Chrissy. _Chrissy._ Where are you? Please be okay, please, please be okay. Don’t do this to your wife, don’t do this to your crew, don’t do this to me. We _need_ you. _I need you.”_ Phil coughed, furiously wiping at his eyes. “Boyce to Pike. Come home. Boyce to Pike. Tell me where you are. Boyce to Pike. I love you. _I love you, Christopher.”_

But Phil’s comm stayed horribly, eerily silent.

On the second day, the Dammans found Ren Emara’s communicator, but no Ren Emara, nor the others. It was an ominous sign, and the rest of the day passed in a blurry haze of hysteria. Phil thought he’d have to sedate Becca.

On the third day, Phil started to think maybe Spock had a point. Maybe logic was the way to deal with this. So he tried to be logical, which necessitated trying to figure out how to explain to everyone that Chris was dead. _Mom, Dad, Chris went on an away mission and didn’t come back. Erin, he’s gone. Becca, I’m so sorry._

Had Chris even filed the paperwork in the past four days to make Becca his next of kin instead of Phil? Should he try to track down Chris’ dad to tell him? Should he contact Siobhan? Should he even attempt to do _anything_ while his heart was being squeezed to pulp by a vise, while he was being tortured with the absolute horror of not knowing, while every second of every minute of every day was a painful plague of _he’s gone, he’s gone, they’re all gone and I never told him what he means to me and he’s gone and how do I live without him?_

That turned into a panic attack, and _that_ turned into Martha sedating _him._

On the fourth day, Phil didn’t get out of bed.

_“I don’t think I want to die in the chair.”_

_“Love you, Philly Boycey.”_

_“I don’t know if I can be that kind of captain.”_

_“Yeah, Phil, I really do.”_

_“Do you think she loved me?”_

_“I’ve never been this goddamn scared.”_

_“There a problem here?”_

_“Thanks, Boyce.”_

Phil rolled his head and looked out his porthole at the stars over the grey-blue of Damma II’s atmosphere, both too close and not close enough to the grey-blue of Chris’ eyes. _Anything you want, universe,_ he thought - was this what _praying_ was? _I’ll do anything you want. Just let him be okay._

 _“Barry to Boyce,”_ Cait’s breathless voice came through the comm. She didn’t even wait for an acknowledgement. _“We found them. Get your ass to medbay.”_

And he was gone, flying down the hall to medbay.

Laura and Lieutenant Ren were both near the entrance to medbay, bruised and scratched but standing under their own power. Frasier, equally bruised and scratched, was giving a verbal report to Martha, Dr. Blume, and the other nurses and techs who were helping their unconscious captain onto a biobed.

“ - persistent tachycardia; bilateral fibular fractures, repaired in the field; severe concussion with occipital swelling; hepatic laceration; evidence of internal bleeding - _Dr. Boyce,”_ she breathed, cutting herself off. “They were using some kind of electrical weapon; we never actually saw it, but it - ”

“V-fib,” Martha called urgently.

“Paddles,” Phil ordered. “Leah, pull eight hundred micrograms of cordrazine, stat. _Clear!”_

Chris’ heart kept right on quivering erratically, then, horrifyingly, flatlined.

“Oh, no you don’t. _Clear!”_

Nothing. _“Cle - ”_

“Sinus tach,” Martha announced.

 _“Goddammit,_ Christopher,” Phil breathed. “Frasier, increase cordrazine to one milligram for stat administration and run twenty migs per kig of quivacine in LR, wide open. Prep an OR. Have blood products on standby. I’m gonna scrub in. Blume, assist.”

“Aye, sir,” Blume said distantly.

Phil turned from the treatment area and headed to his office, sparing a look toward Ren and Laura. “I’m gonna take him in to surgery,” he said lowly. “I don’t know yet.”

Ren bent her head. Laura squeezed her eyes shut.

In the confines of his office, Phil walked over to the dermal sterilizer inset into the wall. In the silence, he steepled his fingers against his face, took a couple of shaky breaths, and looked at himself in the mirror.

 _It’s all on you now, Phil,_ he thought. _The dearest person in your life is flirting with that gossamer curtain right now, and you’re the only thing that can pull him back through to this side. You said you’d do anything the universe wanted. Here’s your chance to prove it._

Phil looked at his hands; they were trembling violently. _I don’t know if I can do this. If he dies, I don’t know if I can live with myself._

“Doctor?” Martha said softly. Phil turned; he didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, or how many times she’d tried to get his attention.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “What is it, Martha?”

Martha approached him. “We were stripping him for surgery and I found this in his inside shirt pocket,” she said. “I thought you should have it before we go in.”

She handed over a small piece of paper. Phil took it and turned it over.

_Oh, god, Chris._

That beautiful, sweet summer day. Chris and Phil on the dock, dangling their legs in the water, Phil with one arm around Chris, the other buried in Flame’s fur. Chris’ cat-and-canary smirk. The pool of light spotlighting them like they were the only two in the universe.

Phil flipped it over. Dad’s handwriting. _P &C ‘35. _

The photo was slightly faded, the edges softened from wear and age. It wasn’t a new phenomenon, obviously, Chris carrying this picture in his inside pocket. He carried this picture with him all the time, right over his heart. Just like Phil did.

Phil didn’t even try to stem his tears. He ran his thumb over Chris’ face in the picture. “Oh, Chris,” he whispered.

 _Go do better,_ Chris had told him that day. _Go be better._

Phil found himself nodding. “Okay, Chrissy,” he whispered to the picture. “Okay.”

He slipped the picture into his own inside pocket, right next to its twin, took a deep breath, and sterilized his hands. It was time to perform.

~

Phil had no idea - _no idea -_ how Chris wasn’t dead. The damage to his heart, liver, spleen, brain, and bones was the kind you’d see on someone who was hit by a car _while_ being struck by lightning, and if it hadn’t been for twenty-third century medical innovations, he wouldn’t have made it off Damma II. Leah Frasier needed a promotion, a commendation, and a raise for her field efforts.

His hands moved on autopilot during the surgery, repairing Chris’ torn liver and spleen, ordering blood and fluids, knitting bones back together, and decreasing cranial swelling without conscious recognition of what his hands were doing. He just kept listening to the _beep - beep - beep_ of Chris’ heart rate, feeling his own heart matching the tempo against the pictures inside his tunic pocket.

“Shit,” Phil muttered, “he’s got a perf in his gallbladder, too.”

“Are you serious?” Ellenor Blume looked up at the right upper quadrant of Chris’ abdomen. “Jesus, I’ve never even _seen_ a ruptured gallbladder.”

“Neither have I.” He swallowed tightly. “They’ve gotta _really_ beat the hell out of you to get to that spot.”

“Can you repair it?” Blume asked, not stopping her work healing Chris’ bruised kidney.

Phil was already trying to by the time she asked. “No,” he sighed. “It’s not working. It’s gotta come out.”

“Well, diarrhea’s better than sepsis,” Blume noted blithely. “I’m sure he’d agree.”

“I’m not,” Phil muttered, “but I’m doing it anyway. Leah, clamp.”

No sooner had Phil clipped Chris’ cystic artery than the steady _beep - beep - beep_ of Chris’ pulse ox sped up and seemed to drop a few beats. His eyes flew to the biobed readout.

“Wh - torsades?” Martha called, surprise audible in her voice.

 _“Torsades?”_ Phil burst incredulously. “Rapid infusion of mag and give another mig of cordrazine. Why the _fuck_ would he have torsades?” The pitch of Chris’ pulse ox lowered, and lowered again, and again, indicating that inadequate amounts of oxygen were getting to his brain. “Switch to 100% oxygen and give twenty-five of oxyeuparacin.” His heart continued to thud rapidly, _far_ too rapidly, then…

“V-fib,” Martha called, looking at Phil sadly.

“No, no, _no,”_ Phil muttered. “Internal paddles. _Clear!”_ Chris twitched slightly on the table; his heart continued its erratic, unpredictable tempo. _“Clear!”_ Again. _“Clear!”_

“Asystole,” Martha announced lowly.

 _No,_ Phil thought. _No, Death. Not Chris. Not today._

“Ellie, retract,” he ordered.

Blume looked at him curiously. “Wha - ”

 _“Just do it,”_ Phil snapped. Blume did as she was asked, and Phil plunged both hands into Chris’ chest, wrapping them around his heart - _that_ _good, sweet, precious heart -_ and squeezing rhythmically.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

“What are you doing?” Blume finally asked.

Phil didn’t take his eyes off the biobed readout. “I’m beating his heart for him.”

“Twenty over palp,” Frasier said. “Still no cardioversion.”

Phil’s hands did not still. His eyes flicked down to Chris’ face - Chris’ filthy, bruised, _heartbreaking_ face, the same one that had sat in a sunbeam and turned Phil’s way decades ago in San Francisco, the same one that had cried with him and laughed with him and dreamed with him, the one Phil could interpret in every single context, the one he would die for, the one he would kill for. _I cannot lose you. I will not survive losing you._

“Please, Chrissy,” he whispered. _“Please.”_

Another few long, tense seconds passed. Then, ever so slightly, Phil felt Chris’ left ventricle twitch. He gasped.

“What was that?” Frasier asked.

It twitched again. And again. Now his atria. Now his entire heart.

“Holy shit,” Martha muttered. “Sinus brady.”

Phil let out an enormous few breaths, like he’d just run a marathon, and slumped slightly against the edge of the biobed. “Con - uh - continue mag infusion and 100% oxygen,” he stuttered, “and give four-hundred micrograms of cordrazine every four hours until rhythm stabilizes.”

Across the table, Blume’s jaw was on the floor. “How...but…”

Phil closed his eyes to blink, feeling for the first time the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Help me get this chole done, would you?” he said softly.

~

Phil didn’t know if it was a sign of mass exhaustion or mass understanding or both that none of his staff came up to him at Chris’ bedside and gave him a _why don’t you go get some sleep?_ platitude, but either way, he was grateful. His eyes flicked back and forth from Chris to the biobed readout, from his blood pressure and heart rate to exactly how many freckles were on his face. He held Chris’ hand, because why the hell not; his fingertips were callused, his palm soft, and he had a bump on the side of his ring finger from where his pen or stylus rested when he wrote something. Phil had never noticed that bump before. Chris was always surprising him.

“Phil?”

Phil turned; there stood Becca, trembling, eyes wide and red and fixed on her husband. “Bec.” He held his arms out for her and Becca grabbed at his biceps, looking at Chris over his shoulder.

“He looks so fragile,” she whispered, approaching Chris’ bed and kissing his forehead.

Phil urged Becca into the seat he’d vacated - she _was_ Chris’ wife, after all. “He’s stronger than he looks,” he said softly.

“What happened to him?”

Phil sighed. “We don’t entirely know yet,” he said. “A lot of what they did, they did behind closed doors; maybe he can illuminate it a little when he’s conscious again.”

“What kind of condition was he in when he got back?”

Well, there was a tough question to answer honestly. “Grave,” Phil finally admitted. “He had a lacerated liver and spleen, internal bleeding, a concussion, multiple broken bones, a ruptured gallbladder, bruised kidneys, and electrical damage to his heart. The damage to his vital organs has been repaired, and his heart appears stable. We removed his gallbladder entirely, but he can live without it. His right fibula will need a little more delicate regeneration once he’s awake, and so will his left wrist, but otherwise, his broken bones have healed.” Phil smiled slightly. “His handwriting’s gonna suck for a while.”

Becca choked out a laugh. “More than it already does,” she said. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” Phil said confidently. “He’ll have a hell of a headache when he comes to, but beyond that, he’ll be okay.”

Becca squeezed Chris’ hand gently, letting out a breath. “Thank you, Phil.” She turned back to face him. _“Thank you.”_

Phil only saw her turn toward him in his periphery; his eyes were fixed on Chris. Those few strands of hair on his head that had rebelled against the graying of the rest of his hair were shining a little in the light, drawing Phil’s eye just as they’d done the first time he saw Chris all those years ago.

“I know you’re in love with him, you know.”

Phil started a little, looking back toward Becca. She didn’t look accusatory, or even upset; just a little sad.

“Don’t think I don’t realize that you’re the better person for him to spend his life with. Don’t think I don’t wonder if, one night, when you and he are just having dinner or watching holovids or something, he’s going to look at you in that _way_ he looks at you and have it all click, and then realize what a horrible mistake he’s making with me.”

Phil gaped at her for a moment. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? “He adores you, Becca,” he finally managed.

Becca smiled tearfully, reaching up to run gentle fingers along Chris’ cheek. “I know,” she said softly. She turned back and looked at Phil. “But I’m not you.”


	20. Chapter 20

_ “Attention, crew of the Lovell. This is Captain Pike. I want to take a moment to thank all of you for your incredible dedication to our mission this last year. You’ve all far surpassed my every expectation, and you’ve made commanding this ship a great pleasure for me and Commander Zoss. Though I will not be continuing command of the Lovell after we return to Earth, I am hopeful that those of you who opt for another tour aboard this vessel bring that same fire and drive and tenacity to working with your new leadership team of Commander Zoss and Lieutenant Commander Spock. Thank you for your ingenuity, for your commitment, and for your humor. It’s been a privilege. Pike out.” _

Medbay fell silent after the announcement. Everyone was staring at one another in confusion. A  _ lot _ of people were looking at Phil. Martha leaned over to him. “Did you know he was going to do that?”

Phil shook his head slowly. He had certainly known Becca was miserable in space, that she was ecstatic to be heading home, and that Damma had, understandably, scared the ever-loving shit out of her. But that Chris was considering going dirtside for her? That he was in the unenviable position of choosing between his wife’s happiness and the career that put a fire in his eyes, and that the former was winning? No, Phil had not known that.

He signaled to Martha that he was heading into his office, then sat at his desk and thought about what  _ he _ should do now.

The thing was, Chris was in Starfleet for space. Chris was in Starfleet because he had that  _ thing,  _ that burning desire that crackled under his skin to demystify and to understand and to explore the universe, to turn unknown into known. When you stripped all the Starfleet gravitas away, Chris at his core was a sociologist and historian; he craved stories of how groups lived and how they got to where they were. Sailing the stars and meeting new life were perfect ways to do that.

Phil was in Starfleet because it gave him a free ride to med school. Of course, Starfleet had its benefits beyond that - humanitarianism, exposure to other cultures, working with good people, the inherent  _ cool  _ factor of working in space - but in truth, Starfleet had always been a means to an end with him. He didn’t have that  _ thing _ Chris had. He could happily leave space whenever he wanted.

He wasn’t so sure Chris could, and that worried him terribly.

“Computer,” he said lowly, “display job listings at Starfleet Medical. Limit search to Earth-based physician positions. Internal postings only.”

The next morning, Phil had barely taken his first sip of coffee and pulled up his schedule for the day when Chris stormed into his office, tossing the PADD in his hand onto Phil’s desk. “What the hell is this?”

_ Good morning to you, too.  _ Phil blithely picked up the PADD. “I, Commander Philip J. Boyce, MD, MPH, serial number MCO-032152, hereby relinquish my position as chief medical officer of the USS Lovell, effective - ”

“I know what the hell it says,” Chris snapped. “What I  _ want _ to know is why it showed up on my desk in the first place. You’d really leave the Lovell without a CMO?”

Phil gave Chris a fond, slightly bemused glance. “Look, you and I decided fifteen years ago that we weren’t going to be separated unless we had no choice in the matter.” He shrugged. “I have a choice in the matter. You think I’m riding around in this tin can without you? Like hell.”

Chris sighed, but gave a small, affectionate smile. “Who’s gonna replace you?”

“I looked at the roster. Zatrelakur’s next in line for a deep space assignment. She’s good. Laura’ll like her.”

“What about you?”

“SFM was advertising for a staff surgeon,” Phil said with a smile. “I nabbed it.”

“Surgeon?” Chris said, a little incredulously. “You’re gonna be  _ bored as hell,  _ not working in ob/gyn.”

“Most of what I do here isn’t ob/gyn. It’s not a big deal.” Phil shrugged. “Plenty of time to pursue it on the side, anyway, and I can always specialize in pelvic surgery. You, on the other hand,  _ will  _ probably be bored as hell, not being behind the wheel of a ship.”

Chris sighed again, this one deep and heavy. “I’ll manage.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Rick Barnett got promoted,” Chris said. “They’re looking for a new Commander of Cadets.”

Phil resisted the urge to burst into laughter and settled for a suppressed little chuckle. “Chris Pike, working with children,” he muttered.  _ “This  _ bodes well.”

“Hey,” Chris protested. “They’re mostly adults.”

Legally, maybe, but at least half of them were still teenagers.  _ “Children,” _ Phil repeated.

Chris flicked him gently on the forehead. “Anyway, it’s only for a little while,” he said. “Bec’s just having some trouble adjusting. In a couple years, once her book’s done and she’s more used to all this ‘Fleet stuff, she said she’ll probably feel better about coming out here with us.”

That was worryingly vague, but Phil swallowed that concern. “As long as you’re okay with that.”

Chris shrugged, picking at his fingernails. “I have to be,” he mumbled. “She’s my wife. If it was just me, no, there’s no  _ way _ I’d give this up. But I’m married now. That’s part of the deal. I’ve gotta think about both of us.”

There was some weird echo of Siobhan in there that Phil couldn’t put his finger on, but Phil recognized that it wouldn’t be helpful to voice it and swallowed that, too. “Well,” he said softly, “at least you’ll know where to find me.”

~

Chris was not entirely wrong when he said Phil wouldn’t love working in general surgery like he did in ob/gyn, but it certainly wasn’t a  _ bad _ experience. Lots of removals of gallbladders and appendices and spleens, lots of hernia repairs and minor vascular procedures, the occasional shit’s-hit-the-fan trauma case. It didn’t tap into the same part of his heart that his primary specialty did, no, but it was diverse and challenging enough to keep him engaged. With his rank and experience, he did have a little bit of limited freedom to go up to labor and delivery every so often, but those trips were, unfortunately, few and far between.

He and Chris typically had lunch together, either in Chris’ office or the cafe at Medical, unless Phil was in the OR; but they didn’t see one another nearly as much as they used to, which pained Phil more than he’d care to admit. When they’d gotten back to Earth, Chris and Becca had bought a house in Sacramento. It was just a quick beam to Starfleet HQ, but a solid hour by car. For two people who’d spent the vast majority of their adult lives in walking distance of one another, it seemed an unbearably large separation. So Phil was understandably disappointed - and perhaps a little peeved - when it was  _ Chris  _ who cancelled a lunch date to take a last-minute meeting. He spent most of his lunch break picking at a salad he didn’t particularly want, eventually putting his head in his hands and rubbing his temples.

Loving Chris from a distance was getting harder and harder to live with.

Phil’s comm buzzed.  _ “Pike to Boyce.” _

Phil frowned at it, picking it up. “What’s up?”

_ “Are you sitting down?” _

Phil blinked at the ominous question. “Yes…”

_ “They’re giving me the fucking flagship.” _

Phil paused, then shook his head like a dog. “They’re what?”

_ “They’re giving me the fucking flagship,”  _ Chris repeated excitedly.  _ “Archer called me in to show me the blueprints. Her name’s Enterprise and she’s so gorgeous I can’t stand it. And they want me to captain her!” _

“Oh god, Chris, that’s awesome!” There was an obvious, rather large question mark in all of this that Phil thought needed filling in, but Chris spoke before he could ask it.

_ “And the best part is that she won’t be finished until probably sometime in ‘58. Remember how Bec told me she thought she just needed a year or two to get used to it, to finish her book and everything? Well, I figure she’ll be happy with seven whole years dirtside before we go back up!” _

That seemed like a pretty rational argument, though Phil  _ really  _ thought Chris and Becca should have one or two or twelve conversations on the subject before he got his hopes up. Nevertheless, Phil couldn’t bring himself to bring this bubbly, excited Chris down to Earth. “That’s so great, Chris. I’m  _ so  _ happy for you. Need a CMO?”

Phil could almost  _ hear  _ Chris’ eyeroll.  _ “Oh, you.” _

The following day, Phil got caught in a procedure that took a little longer than anticipated, so he ran late to their rescheduled lunch date. He took the stairs up to Chris’ office two at a time, nodded to Noor at her desk by the door, and let himself into Chris’ office without breaking stride.

“I’m late, I know, I’m sorry, I’m an asshole…” He paused. Chris was sitting at his desk, staring at his terminal, his jaw hanging open and a look on his face like the sky had just fallen. “What?” When Chris didn’t respond, continuing to look at the screen with that look of utter horror on his face, Phil came closer. “Chris, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Chris’ silent look of shock continued. Phil could see him struggling for breath, his chest heaving even though he wasn’t audibly gasping. Coming around to Chris’ side of the desk, Phil took a look at the terminal for himself.

_ Petition for divorce. _

_ “What?!” _ Phil whispered. Chris just shook his head, ever so slowly, as if he didn’t understand what he was looking at. Which was fair, frankly; he probably  _ didn’t.  _ Phil’s eyes flicked to the minimized preview of another recent message, this one from Becca:  _ I should’ve listened. You’re meant to be out there. I’m sorry. - Bec _

_ Oh, god. _

Becca hated flying. Becca had hated being on the Lovell, and no matter how much she loved Chris, she hated Chris’ job and the potential for danger it carried. That carrot she’d dangled about needing  _ a couple years  _ had placated Chris, offering him a compromise that would get them back to Earth. Maybe it was all a ploy, a conscious or unconscious means to an end that unraveled when Chris committed to going back up. Maybe her  _ couple years  _ was a genuine offer, but she found she couldn’t handle it when faced with the reality of Chris returning to space. Maybe she thought letting him go to do what he did best was the kindest available choice for them both. In the moment, it didn’t much matter. Whatever the reason, this was a blindside of the worst sort, and Chris’ horrified shock was  _ entirely  _ warranted.

_ Don’t just ask someone how you can help and leave it at that. If you know what they need, just do it. _

Phil put a hand on Chris’ shoulder and opened his comm, keeping his voice low. “Philip Boyce to Starfleet Personnel Office. To whom am I speaking?”

_ “Lieutenant Commander DePaul here, sir.” _

“DePaul, please make an official note that I am placing Captain Christopher Pike on indefinite medical leave, beginning immediately. Please further notify anyone with whom he has a meeting scheduled within the next two weeks.”

_ “Aye, sir.” _

Phil adjusted the frequency. “Boyce to Craddock. Martha, I’ve had a family emergency; I’m gonna be out for a week or so. Can you spread the word?”

_ “No problem, boss.” _

Phil closed his comm, pocketed it, and put an arm around Chris, guiding him to his feet. “Come on, Chrissy. Come on.”

They were halfway down the hall before Chris stammered, “W-where are we going?”

Phil shook his head. “I don’t know, but somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Why?” Chris asked, his voice heartbreakingly childlike.

_ Because I know you, and I know that if I don’t get you out of here, you’re going to spiral into a depression I’m not sure I can pull you out of and I won’t let that happen to you.  _ “Because you need to be somewhere that isn’t here.”

As they walked out of the building and into the parking lot, the springtime sun mocking them all the way, Chris paled dramatically. “Phil, I’m gonna throw up.”

Phil ushered them to a nearby trash can. “I don’t blame you, pal.”

~

They got a few weird looks at the civilian San Francisco shuttleport, and Phil wasn’t sure if it was his scrubs, Chris’ uniform, or the fact that one of them looked like he’d just come back from war and the other was literally holding him upright. Mercifully, Phil had also spent a lifetime not particularly caring what people thought of him, and Chris was in such a zombie state that his usual veil of self-consciousness was overridden by shock.

“Where’s your next shuttle out with two seats headed?” Phil asked a gate attendant.

The man consulted his terminal. “A shuttle for Cancun’s leaving in half an hour. Last minute fare’s a thousand credits apiece.”

“That’ll do,” Phil said, handing over his credit chip. Never mind the sheer absurdity of two fortysomething men going on an entirely platonic trip to Cancun over spring break; never mind the fact that neither of them had so much as a toothbrush with them - this was an emergency.

As the shuttle entered the air and Chris stared out the window at the ground growing smaller below them, Phil saw the exact moment where the shock began to ebb away, where it was replaced by the reality and the gravity of what had just happened.  _ “Bec,” _ he whispered out the window.

Shuttle seats did not afford much room to provide physical comfort, so Phil grabbed Chris’ hand, a silent little  _ I’ve got you; you’re not alone. _

Chris clapped a hand over his mouth as the sorrow hit him at warp eight. “Oh  _ god.” _

“Chris,” Phil said softly.

Chris took a shaky breath. “Phil, she’s  _ leaving me.”  _ He trembled a little, curling up and leaning into Phil, his head on Phil’s shoulder.

Phil didn’t let go of Chris’ hand, but he rested his chin on the top of Chris’ head. “Listen to me,” he said just loudly enough to be heard over the shuttle’s engines. “You’re gonna get through this, okay? I know you think this is unsurvivable, but you are  _ so much stronger  _ than you think you are. This is one area where I know you better than  _ you  _ know you. Trust me.”

Chris gave a jerky nod into Phil’s shoulder. “Okay,” he whispered.

~

Neither Phil nor Chris had ever been to Mexico before, and neither Phil nor Chris could have told another person what, exactly, Mexico was like. Their first forty-eight hours passed in a haze of substances, mainly bottles of tequila with room for two, with special appearances by some other, legally grey pharmaceuticals. Phil didn’t know and Chris didn’t care  _ which  _ pharmaceuticals those were, but Phil, who’d always had a higher tolerance than Chris for...well, anything, figured it’d be fine so long as he stayed conscious so Chris didn’t (a) have an exceptionally bad trip or (b) die.

Unfortunately, Phil forgot to account for the fact that Chris had the naturally earlier internal clock, so even after they’d both safely gone to sleep, Chris could get up early and start day-drinking before Phil was awake. Which could lead to (c) Chris getting lost in a spring break crowd in Cancun, and consequently (d) Phil waking up to find Chris gone, and then trying to find him while fighting off a simultaneous panic attack and  _ epic _ hangover.

The front desk didn’t know where he was. The staff at the bar they’d most recently frequented didn’t know where he was. The very nice young man who’d supplied them with a rainbow of pills wrapped up like a sleeve of Smarties yesterday didn’t know where he was. Phil wound up wandering the streets for an hour, in scrub pants and a tourist t-shirt he didn’t remember buying that was probably intended for Chris, wincing painfully at the sun and the noise and calling Chris’ name in the vain hope that Chris would magically appear and respond.

_ Bzzt-bzzt.  _ Phil let out an epic sigh of relief, opening his communicator. “Chris?”

_ “Try again, dear.” _

Phil frowned at his comm. “Erin? I thought you were on Betazed?”

_ “I’m giving a lecture in Melbourne. Where, by the way, it’s five in the fucking morning. Chris just called me.” _

“Where is he?” Phil blurted, unable to keep the panic out of his voice.

_ “I have no idea, but I’m texting you the coordinates from where his comm originated.” _

“Is he okay? Did he say anything?”

_ “The only identifiable words were ‘Phil’ and ‘Becca’ and ‘divorce.’ I can do the math. Phil, he doesn’t sound okay.” _

“Shit,” Phil bit out. His comm beeped. “Your coordinates just came through. I’ll find him, Erin.”

_ “You damn well better. Call me when you do.” _

“I will. I promise.”

The coordinates that Erin sent to Phil - bless that utter  _ saint _ of a woman - led him in the direction of the beach, toward a row of vacation homes with a healthy number of college kids pouring out of them. He was about two hundred meters from the spot where the comm had originated when he spotted Chris making his way down the road in Phil’s direction. He was wearing ill-fitting board shorts and an expression Phil could only describe as  _ lost,  _ literally and metaphorically. The closer he got, the clearer Phil could make out the redness of his eyes and the speckles of vomit on his shirt.

“Chrissy?” Phil said gently.

Chris looked up, made eye contact with Phil, and started crying.  _ “Phil,”  _ he whimpered, collapsing a little into Phil’s outstretched arms. He reeked of sweat and alcohol and somebody’s perfume, and it made Phil want to retch for reasons wholly unrelated to his hangover.

“I gotcha, Chris,” he said quietly. “I gotcha. C’mon. Let’s go lie down.”

He had no idea how he found their way back to their motel. Once Chris was safely in his bed, curled in the fetal position, Phil sent a text to Erin:  _ Rescue and recovery complete. Details to come. You’re an angel. xoxo _

Erin texted him back after his head hit the pillow.  _ Love him. _

Phil didn’t know if it was a statement from her or a command to him. He chose to interpret it as both.

The next time Phil opened his eyes, it was to the highly unpleasant sensation of multiple sharp knives piercing his skull. He winced painfully; the sun had risen again. It seemed absurd that they’d slept an entire day and night away, but apparently they needed the rest. In the adjacent bed, Chris was sitting up, still under the covers, with a somber, pensive expression.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Phil said, pushing himself up onto his elbow. He still felt like garbage, and Chris looked like he felt even worse. “What’s on your mind?”

Chris was quiet for a moment, rubbing a small section of the duvet between his fingertips - an ancient nervous tic Phil had seen countless times. “Do you think I’m like my mother?”

“What do you mean?” Phil was pretty sure he knew what Chris meant, but he needed to be sure.

Chris licked his lips; he seemed to be trying to figure out how to phrase it. “I know I’m intelligent,” he began. “I know I’m a competent officer. I take a lot of pride in my work. A  _ lot _ of pride.”

Phil nodded. “I know you do.”

“But I’m...I don’t... _ get  _ relationships.” He shifted uncomfortably in bed. “I can get in just fine, sure, and I can save face for a while when I first start out with somebody; but then the  _ real  _ me comes out, and I’m awkward and aloof and lazy and anxious and selfish and I wanna run away back into space, and I just…” He paused, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I just wonder if...if I  _ got _ something from her.” He shook his head. “I can do my job. I can do anything they ask when I know the expectations. But I feel like maybe I’m just...socially broken. Intimately broken.”

“You’re wondering if you inherited her mental illness?” Phil clarified. Chris nodded morosely.

That was a tough one, in part because it wasn’t as though the thought hadn’t crossed Phil’s mind before. Chris was right; on duty, he was steady as a rock - methodical, calm, sensible, quick on his feet. But the private Chris, the one only a tiny, privileged circle of people got to see, could also be mercurial, distant, nervous, melancholy. Phil had long surmised that Chris had spent his entire life tiptoeing along the line that separated neurotypicality from neurodivergence, and while his outward behavior seemed to indicate that he landed on the former side of the line most of the time, it wasn’t without obvious effort. Mentally ill? Probably not. Mentally  _ different,  _ and susceptible to psychological struggles because of it? Oh, yes.

But that wasn’t the question. Chris had asked if he was  _ like his mother. _ In Phil’s admittedly limited assessment, some tendencies toward periodic anxiety and depression didn’t hold a candle to the battles Emily Beckett had survived.

“I’m an ob/gyn, not a psychiatrist, but if you’re talking to me as a doctor, then my answer would have to be no. You’re not like your mother. You’ve told me what your life was like before she went to the hospital. Her illness didn’t just cause her marriage to break down; it prevented her from caring for her child, or holding down a job, or having any kind of a functional lifestyle. As far as I can tell - and for that matter, as far as  _ Starfleet  _ can tell - that’s not the case with you. You function. Hell, you function at a way higher level than most of the brass. Why do you think they’re giving you their baby? It’s because they trust you. They know Chris Pike is a good man who doesn’t let people down.”

Chris shook his head a little - Phil couldn’t tell if it was genuine denial or just a reflexive action - and spoke in a voice so small and fragile that it hurt Phil’s heart. “Then why is this happening again?” He looked at Phil and shrugged helplessly. “I’m getting ready to be divorced -  _ again.  _ If I’m such a good man, how come  _ two _ good women didn’t want to stay married to me? Do you know how humiliating that is? Do you know how  _ embarrassed  _ I am?”

_ Oh, Chris.  _ “I know. I know.”

“If there was something  _ wrong  _ with me, some chemical reason this keeps happening, maybe it could be fixed.”

“I think you’re trying to fix something that isn’t broken,” Phil said gently. Chris rolled his eyes a little and opened his mouth, but Phil forestalled his objection. “Yes, okay? Yes. Siobhan and Becca are both good women, and they both loved you. But the common denominator between them is not just  _ you.  _ It’s that they both wanted you to become somebody you weren’t. Siobhan knew you didn’t want children before you got married, but she married you anyway, hoping you’d change your mind; and when you didn’t, she bailed. Becca knew how important your career is to you and that you were born to be up in the black; she tried to handle it for a while, I’ll give her that, but when she made a compromise with you to get what she wanted and it came time for you to get what  _ you  _ wanted, she ran away instead of honoring her deal.” Phil shrugged. “That doesn’t sound like a character defect in  _ you,  _ Chris.”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut. “I still love her, Phil.”

“I know you do, Chris. And I’m sure she loves you, too. But she doesn’t get it. Neither one of them got it. They didn’t understand that those changes they wanted from you weren’t the minor things they assumed them to be, that they weren’t compatible with the guy with the dimples and witty comebacks that they fell in love with when they met you. They wanted things from you that would change who Chris Pike is, that would change your very makeup. Things you are at your core that make you blossom. Things you can’t separate yourself from.”  _ Things I love about you. Things that light that fire in your eyes. Things that make you special and unique and extraordinary and that I want to see more of.  _ Phil broke off eye contact before those last thoughts found voice and looked at his hands instead. “I don’t think you’re mentally ill, Chris,” he affirmed. “I think you’re just stubbornly,  _ wonderfully  _ persistent in exactly who you are, who you’ve been, and who you want to be. That makes you a good officer, a great friend, and a wonderful man.”

Chris managed a smile at Phil. “It’s brought me a hell of a lot of bad luck.”

Phil chuckled softly. “I can’t argue with that.” He looked back up at Chris. “You are not bad or defective or unworthy or any of that other bullshit your head is telling you. You’re  _ not. _ And you know, Siobhan and Becca aren’t, either, even though I’m not exactly president of their fan clubs right now. They just weren’t right for you, Chris. That’s not a hallmark of you being inescapably flawed in some way. It just means they weren’t right for you. Nothing more.” He shrugged, smiling softly. “Occam’s razor. Keep it simple.”

Chris sighed and nodded, settling back against his pillows. They were quiet for a long while before he spoke again.

“You know, it occurs to me that my relationship with you is the longest and healthiest one I’ve probably ever had.”

It was the most bittersweet of statements. “It’s been a privilege, sweetheart.”

“Thank you for this. You were right; I needed to get out for a while. To get out of  _ myself  _ for a while.”

Phil smiled. “Anytime, Chrissy.”

“Also?”

“Hmm?”

“We are  _ never _ taking ecstasy again.”

“No the fuck we are  _ not.” _


	21. Chapter 21

“Ooh, this looks promising. Hey, Chris, can I smash this?”

Chris snatched the little clock out of Erin’s hands. “That’s  _ mine!” _

Erin sighed in obvious disappointment. “Damn.”

Phil smiled, continuing to load Chris’ books into a box, handful by handful.

Chris had told Becca to keep the Sacramento house - or rather, his lawyer had told her lawyer. After she’d filed for divorce, Becca had gone to Seattle to stay with her parents, and she was staying up there until Chris had had a chance to move out. He’d applied for BOQ housing, and until that was approved, he’d be crashing on the old green futon again.  _ (“Where he belongs,”  _ Phil’s mom had said with an audible smile when Phil had called her with an update.) So Erin and Phil were helping him pack up and move out. Erin seemed keen to destroy something of Becca’s as a final  _ hey fuck you;  _ but for Phil’s rapid intervention that morning, she would’ve set one of Becca’s bras on fire.

Phil did not condone this behavior...but he understood.

That night, the three of them sat in the living room, lights off, splitting a bottle of wine and watching shadows grow outside as the sun dipped below the horizon. To Phil’s right, Chris sighed heavily. “I give up.”

The fatalistic language was a little alarming to Phil, but Erin wisely said, “On what?”

“On love. I keep trying to be someone’s partner. I keep failing. Maybe it’s a sign that I need to stop trying.”

“Or maybe it’s a sign that you’re trying with the wrong people,” Erin countered. “You have to admit, you have a type. Maybe that’s what’s not working for you.”

Chris stared dumbly at Erin. “Are you implying I should start dating blondes?”

Erin heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m implying that maybe you should have the courage to invade your own privacy.” She looked past Chris to Phil. “How do you  _ stand  _ this man?”

Phil smiled fondly. “He’s a disaster, but a sweet disaster. It balances out.”

Despite the absolutely shit circumstances that surrounded Chris’ moving back in with Phil, they fell back into their established patterns of relatively frictionless cohabitation pretty quickly. Chris did laundry, Phil cooked; Chris washed, Phil dried; Chris showered at night, Phil in the morning. There were no complaints about noise levels or fights over the remote control, and the only bickering was minor and affectionate, usually about Phil’s reluctance to get up in the morning or that glorified syrup Chris drank every morning that he had the nerve to call  _ coffee.  _ Chris was still a little raw from his divorce, but he was healing, and having a routine and a supportive environment seemed to help. In Phil’s estimation, he and Chris both met the dictionary definition of  _ contentment -  _ something that lacked the effervescent, frenetic connotations of  _ happiness,  _ but that signaled some deeper, richer, but more subtle satisfaction and fulfillment.

Phil couldn’t deny that the urge to ask Chris to just cancel that BOQ application and stay with him was flaring bold and bright inside him, even as he acknowledged the pure selfishness of that thought. And sure, part of that desire - okay, a  _ large  _ part of that desire - was that it was Chris; but honestly, there was something deeper there, something he found safe and holy in the company and the community of it all. He liked having another heartbeat around.

But Phil did not ask Chris to cancel his BOQ application. Phil’s mom, on the other hand…

“You know, honey, you talk about wanting a partnership, about not wanting to grow old alone, all while you’re making arrangements to do just that,” Mom said over a vid call with Chris one night. “Why don’t you just stay with Phil? It’s a hell of a lot easier to not have to schlep your stuff to a new place, and you’re so much happier with his company than without it.” She laughed. “Frankly, so is he.”

Dicing an onion in the kitchen and casually eavesdropping, Phil rolled his eyes fondly.  _ Remember, the keepers of your secrets know your secrets better than you do.  _ And, apparently, are more adept at tiptoeing around the edges of said secrets.

Chris sighed. “I can’t do that to him,” he said softly. “I’ve burdened him enough in the past twenty-five years.”

_ That _ made Phil look up.  _ Burden? _

“Chris,” Mom said with quiet vehemence, “I am less certain of the fact that one plus one equals two than I am of the fact that Phil does not and has never considered you a  _ burden.  _ You are his best friend and the most important person in his world.”

Chris shrugged at the screen. “It just seems like he’s always the one having to deal with my shit, you know? Never the other way around. He’s had to help me through two failed marriages, Mom dying,  _ me  _ almost dying...it just feels out of balance. Staying here would just be one more thing.”

Phil had abandoned the onion on his cutting board and was now just leaning against the corner in the kitchen’s entryway, listening to Chris speak, his heart aching.

“Phil does that because he loves you, Chris,” Mom said softly. “It’s not an obligation; it’s a choice. He chooses you. Every time.”

_ Love. No matter what. _

There was an emphatically non-platonic and equally true way that Chris could have interpreted Mom’s statement, but to Phil’s relief, it didn’t seem to faze him like that. “I don’t know what I did to deserve that,” he murmured. “What I did to deserve all of you.”

“You’re a good man with a good heart,” Mom said simply. “Why wouldn’t you deserve it?”

Chris sighed heavily. “I think I’m still gonna move out,” he said quietly. “But maybe not all the way to BOQ. Maybe closer to here.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, honey.”

Chris took a deep breath and changed the subject with a question about the grandkids, and Phil kept standing there in the threshold of the kitchen, wondering how the hell to convey to that challenging, amazing, and surprising man the truth of every word his mother had just said.

~

Chris’ new apartment was a seventh-floor walkup two blocks from Phil’s place. It was nice; Phil was particularly fond of the huge picture window in the front room, so high up and far out that Phil could see his own porch light from there. It looked a little out of place - kind of retro in this aggressively contemporary setting - but it let light in. The places Chris had previously lived consistently lacked natural light, which bugged Phil, though he left his complaint unvoiced. This, though -  _ this  _ was a vast improvement.

They both threw themselves back into work. Phil was given some first-year ob/gyn residents to babysit, and even though he was still technically on the payroll of general surgery, he was spending more time in labor and delivery with his charges than in the OR. He didn’t really feel old enough to be put in charge of a bunch of firsties like that, but as Sarah had so  _ gently  _ reminded him, Phil  _ was _ flirting with the half-century mark pretty damn hard. Chris, meanwhile, had always tolerated his Commander of Cadets responsibilities as a means to an end that now would never come, at least not the way he wanted; but after his divorce, he became suddenly and passionately dedicated to developing a stronger Academy curriculum, protecting cadets’ welfare, and getting more creative with recruitment strategies. It was clear to Phil that Chris was doing this to distract himself from poking at the Becca-shaped bruise on his heart -  _ when in need of a distraction, find a cause -  _ but it seemed to be actually working at dulling the pain of that loss.

Even though they weren’t living together anymore, in a lot of respects, Phil thought their relationship felt like old times. They dropped in on one another for lunch, went grocery shopping together - Phil was trying to teach Chris how to feed himself real food without burning his apartment down - and spent virtually all their evenings off together at one of their places, watching TV, being slothful, and usually unintentionally spending the night. It reminded Phil of the best parts of the early days of their friendship, of coming home to their dorm and collapsing on that awful old sofa next to Chris with a pizza and that scratchy blanket.

Then Chris started acting...off.

Not  _ depressed _ off. Not  _ anxious _ off. Certainly not  _ mean _ off. Just... _ off. _

Maybe  _ confused _ off? It was hard to tell, even for Phil and his fluency in his best friend’s mannerisms. He seemed more contemplative, more sensitive, and a little more self-conscious, and his baseline for all three was already pretty high. A couple of times, Phil had looked up to see Chris looking at him with that odd tension in his lips and jaw that said he wanted to say something, but when Phil asked what was wrong, Chris just shook his head and asked if Phil wanted the last slice of pizza.

Phil wanted to press him, to get Chris to crack and say what was bugging him; but he also knew that Chris was more open with him than with anyone else in his life, and if  _ this _ \- whatever it was - was enough to keep him still, then pushing him to open up would be counterproductive. Chris didn’t like being confused; it scared him, and he liked to hold still when he was scared. So Phil would be patient, and Phil would let Chris do whatever processing he needed to in his own head, and Phil would make it clear that he was here to listen whenever Chris decided he needed to give it voice.

_ Patience reaps rewards. _

The day before Chris was set to leave on a sweeping recruitment tour of midwestern farm country (“they  _ do  _ have cities there too, Phil”), Phil summoned him to Medical. “Your contraceptive implant needs swapping out,” he explained.

Chris scoffed. “I’m not exactly going to North Dakota to get laid, Phil.”

“I’m delighted to hear that, dear, but if I don’t swap it out now, then it’ll expire while you’re gone and then I’ll have to do a bunch of paperwork to unknot HQ’s sexually repressive panties.”

Chris blanched. “Thanks, Phil. That was, um...graphic.”

Phil snorted. “Won’t take long.”

Chris sighed and settled on the biobed, lifting his right arm so Phil could see the appropriate site. “Go to town,” he mumbled. “You’re wasting it on me, but okay.”

Phil paused in feeling Chris’ medial epicondyle to raise an eyebrow at him. “Do  _ you  _ want a repeat of seven years ago? Because I do not.”

“No. I’m just not likely to get any use of the damn thing over the  _ next  _ seven years, either.”

Phil tried to keep his face neutral as he numbed Chris’ skin. “Is there something you need to talk about?”

There was that look again - the one that meant  _ yes but I’m not gonna say so.  _ “No.” There was a beat of silence. Then, Chris spoke again. “I can’t sleep.”

Phil frowned. “Since when? You slept great last night.”

“I mean I can’t sleep in my own apartment,” Chris clarified. “I haven’t lived alone very much in my life, you know? It’s  _ weird,  _ not having another person there. I’ll fall asleep for a few minutes and then wake up expecting to have that sense that someone else is there and fall back asleep, but then I realize I’m alone and I can’t slip back under.” He swallowed. “I don’t like being alone with my thoughts.”

Phil put a tiny nick in Chris’ skin. “You wanna move back in with me?”

Chris gave a self-deprecating laugh. “You don’t want me to move back in with you.”

_ That’s literally all I’ve wanted for more than half my life, but okay.  _ “It’s a genuine offer, Chris. You don’t want to be alone with your own thoughts; neither do I. Win-win.”

Chris rolled his head to the side and met Phil’s eyes, and there was so much unexpected affection in them that it took Phil’s breath away. “Thank you,” he said softly. “It’s...it’s  _ sweet  _ of you to offer, but you’ve put up with me enough for one lifetime.”

Phil pursed his lips. “Well. The offer still stands.”

“Thank you,” Chris repeated. Then he heaved a huge sigh. “God, I envy you.”

Phil slipped a hemostat under Chris’ skin, fishing out the tiny rod that triggered his immune system to suppress his sperm’s motility. “You  _ envy  _ me? Why?”

“Because you’re bi,” Chris mumbled. “Because you have such a huge pool of people who could fill that  _ partnership  _ role in your life. Clearly I fuck things up with  _ women  _ at every given opportunity; maybe I’d have better luck on my own side of the street.”

That was an undeniably  _ weird  _ thing for Chris to say, but it also hit a little too close to home for Phil to focus on its weirdness. “Men aren’t any easier, Chris.”

Chris looked up at him, a little wary and uncertain. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that people are people,” Phil said. “Everybody has flaws and baggage and shit to go through. Coupling is hard no matter who you’re doing it with, because giving of yourself without sacrificing your identity is a hell of a balancing act. Lift,” he directed, wrapping a bandage around Chris’ upper arm when he did. “I may have a bigger pool of people to be  _ interested  _ in, but whether or not I can actually  _ act  _ on that interest is contingent on  _ them  _ being into men in general and me specifically.” He shook his head. “It’s not a larger pool of potential partners. It’s a proportionally larger chance of getting my heart broken when the guy I want is straight.”

Phil realized after the fact that he might’ve said just a  _ little  _ too much there at the end, but he couldn’t help it. Playing with your cards that close to your chest for nearly thirty years gives a man some serious muscle fatigue. But Chris didn’t give any indication that he was reading between the lines of what Phil had just said. Instead, he just looked up at Phil with that little crease between his eyebrows and a solemn expression.

“Phil?” he said quietly. “Is there something  _ you  _ need to talk about?”

_ Yeah, I need to talk about muscle fatigue. I need to talk about why the hell the universe wasn’t honest with me that time it told me your life and mine were about to intertwine like a complicated plait, why it didn’t tell me it was going to be so hard for so long and that this ache in my chest would be my new shadow for the rest of my life. I need to talk about how I haven’t stopped thinking about you, you beautiful, frustrating, sweet disaster, since the day we met, and how I’ve spent thirty years trying to convince myself that this would get easier and less acute with time, but that every fucking day I love you more than I did the day before and I don’t know how to make the pain stop. I need to talk about muscle fatigue. _

“No. No, I’m okay.”

~

“What kept you?” Phil asked, smoothly taking Chris’ bag off his shoulder and putting it in his trunk.

“Oh, you know how it is,” Chris said breezily as they both got in the car. “Stopped to pee, helped a firstie find the way to the plebe dorms, made a dastardly underhanded political move to support the greater good.”

“Ah,” Phil said. “Proud of you.”

Chris grinned. “Knew you would be.”

“So how’d recruitment go?”

Chris made a gesture with his hand that approximated  _ meh.  _ “Not terrible. I mean, some of these kids are probably gonna run for mama as soon as they catch sight of a phaser cannon, but that’s nothing new. And hey, I’ve been surprised before.” He leaned over to fiddle with the car’s environmental controls. “Oh, picked you up a surgeon, too.”

“For me?!” Phil said in the dreamiest voice possible. “And I didn’t get you anything! Thank you, Chrissy!”

“Eh, don’t thank me yet. By all accounts, McCoy’s pretty brilliant, but he’s got a major fear of flying we’re gonna have to deal with.”

A record scratch sounded in Phil’s brain.  _ McCoy? No, that can’t be. There have to be more brilliant surgeons named McCoy out there than just the one; plus, isn’t he supposed to be based in Atlanta or Charleston or somewhere like -  _

“What?” Chris asked.

“Not...not  _ Leonard  _ McCoy?”

“Yeah. Why? You know him?”

_ Oh, I get it now. This is how Sarah felt when she was fifteen and Mom drove her to Portland to see her favorite band and she wound up getting to meet them. This is what that was like. _

The car behind them honked. Phil looked up; the light was green. “Chris, Leonard McCoy is a  _ genius,”  _ he clarified, turning left toward Chris’ apartment. “Holy shit. He’s totally revolutionized neurosurgery; he invented a completely new neural grafting technique. He’s got five different board certifications. He’s only twenty-eight and he’s already a goddamn  _ legend _ and you  _ recruited him?!” _

Chris laughed. “If you were a teenage girl, you’d have a poster of him above your bed, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a fifty-year-old man and I’m damn tempted to put a poster of him above my bed.”

“No, that’s not creepy at all, Philip.”

“I regret nothing, Christopher.”

“Guess who else I brought back?”

“Who?”

Chris grinned. “Picked George Kirk’s son up off the floor of a bar.”

Phil  _ instantly  _ flashed back to the wailing, skinny blond boy with broken bones and shot kidneys he’d treated after Tarsus, of Chris cradling him to his chest and putting him on a gurney.  _ That kid? The kid who’s gotten screwed over by Starfleet twice in his life in irreparable ways? You dragged him out of a sorrow-drowning bar and convinced him to join up?  _ “You’re not serious.”

Chris just looked at Phil as if to say  _ I’m serious. _

“You recruited the  _ Kelvin baby  _ into  _ Starfleet?”  _ Phil said slowly. “How the actual hell did you pull that off?”

Chris broke eye contact. “I may have brought up the Kelvin in my recruitment speech.”

_ Christopher, did you guilt trip this kid? _

“Also that his father saved several hundred people.”

_ You definitely guilt tripped this kid. _

“And I maybe dared him to do better than his father.”

“Oh,  _ Jesus,  _ Chris.” 

“It was the only way I was gonna get through to him!” Chris protested in a voice that sounded very much like a whine. “The kid’s a genius, Phil. The last cadet with aptitude records even close to Kirk’s was Spock, and he didn’t have the breadth of study. Unfortunately, Kirk’s arrest record was similarly impressive.”

Phil shrugged. “That’s not necessarily unfortunate.” Not that he was biased or anything.

Chris paused in unlocking his apartment door to give Phil a Look. “Your arrest record is more  _ disturbing the peace to protest labor violations  _ and less  _ assault and possession with intent.” _

“Point.”

“Anyway, my standard issue material wasn’t cutting it,” Chris continued. “I improvised.”

“By invoking his  _ dead father?” _

Chris sighed. “Yeah, okay, you win. Dick move.” He dropped his duffel bag and collapsed in the armchair in his front room. “But can I get some credit for intentions, though? I mean, god, Phil, he’s  _ better  _ than that. He’s  _ better _ than getting in bar fights in the middle of nowhere. He’s got infinite potential. Archer-level potential. Maybe even bigger. I just...I couldn’t leave him there.” He shrugged, breaking eye contact and fingering a loose thread on his command jacket. “Not just after all he’s been through, not just after Tarsus and losing his father and growing up in a town surrounded by reminders of what he’s without, but because I can see it in him. He’s got that  _ thing.  _ He just needed to get out of Iowa to let it flourish.” He sighed again. “He’s gonna go stupidly far here, as long as the clowns running the show let him do it.”

Phil stood in the kitchen’s threshold and smiled. For a guy who’d spent his entire life actively not wanting to be a father, Chris sure as hell sounded like a concerned dad singing his son’s praises. There was something  _ new  _ in his mannerisms, the same kind of thing Phil saw flower in his med students when they gained confidence in a new skill, the same kind of thing he saw in new parents after their child was born. Like it was something that had always been there, under the surface, but that they hadn’t known existed.

Finally, after a solid minute of silence, Chris looked up at Phil and saw his smirk. “What?”

“Far be it for me to say, Captain Pike,” he said, “but your tone is downright  _ paternal.” _

Chris’ face flattened into a bloodless glare. He got up and walked past Phil into the kitchen, giving him a little smack upside the head as he went. “Ass.”

~

In spite of the fact that they ran in multiple intersecting circles, most of the summer passed before Phil and Leonard McCoy got to actually meet. McCoy lived with Jim Kirk, who spent a ton of time with Chris, who spent a ton of time with Phil; Phil and McCoy worked at the same place in the same department doing the same job, but even then, Phil had only seen McCoy on rare occasion during grand rounds, and had never spoken with him. Logistics just weren’t on Phil’s side.

“Hey, Ben,” Phil greeted lowly at 1900 sharp, coming on for a twelve-hour overnight shift. “What’ve we got?”

The charge nurse shrugged. “Not much exciting, at least not yet. Ahluwalia’s in one closing a splenectomy post-MVA, and McCoy just took some xeno-peds case into two. Looks like you’re free for the moment.”

“Don’t you know better than to say that too loud?” Phil teased. “The Trauma Gods can hear you.”

“As long as they also hear that I want a latte, that’s fine by me.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna go finish some old charting before Medical Records tears me a new one. You know where to find me.”

He spent two boring hours in the break room at his terminal, typing up notes on patients he’d recently seen, before his comm buzzed.

_ “OR-2 to Dr. Boyce.” _

“Boyce here.”

_ “Dr. McCoy’s asking for your assistance.” _

Phil smiled in pleasant surprise. He’d hoped to meet McCoy in a non-OR setting, but he’d take what he could get. “I’ll be there in five.”

After scrubbing in, he entered the OR to find McCoy’s head bent over the abdomen of what appeared to be an Andorian patient, a couple surgical techs next to him. “Dr. McCoy?”

McCoy looked up. “Dr. Boyce from gynecology, I presume?”

“Among other things,” Phil answered pleasantly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. What’ve we got here?”

McCoy moved to the side, giving Phil a look at the surgical field. “Nine-year-old Andorian  _ shen  _ presented to the ED two days ago with a week’s history of transient abdominal pain, fatigue, antennae ptosis, and fever to forty-five degrees. Admitted for fluids and pain management. Today developed an acute abdomen. Bedside CT unremarkable, so we moved to laparotomy.”

Phil peered around her abdominopelvic cavity. “Hmm. Vital organs look fine. I don’t see any evidence of GYN pathology.”

“I didn’t either, till I looked in her oviparous canal,” McCoy drawled. “You’re the expert; you tell me - what the hell is that?”

At first, Phil didn’t see anything. He crouched down a little, shifting, trying to get out of his own light. Then, he saw what McCoy was referencing: a paper-thin tubule floating down into the canal, ostensibly originating somewhere in her pelvis.

_ Oh, god. _

“Dr. McCoy,” Phil said lowly, “please elevate the pubic symphysis.”

McCoy frowned at him, but did as he was asked. There, sitting in that cramped, immature space, lay two tiny, pale purple ovoid masses.

_ “Chelestyakeh,”  _ Phil whispered.

“Huh?” McCoy said eloquently. “What’s that?”

Phil looked up at the young  _ shen’s  _ face. She was only nine, square in that grey area where some have begun puberty and some have not. A cursory look at her gonadal capsules indicated she was in the latter category.

_ “It’s a mercy she was through puberty when she did it….What little vitaxoralin she has has kept her alive until now.” _

This girl - this  _ child -  _ didn’t have that vitaxoralin. Her body had barely started even producing it.

Phil took a deep breath to calm his quiet fury. “It’s an illegal procedure performed on Risa,” he said. “Transplantation of Risan ovaries and oviducts into Andorian  _ shens  _ to increase their reproductive potential. I had a case like this during my fellowship. This is a transplant rejection.”

“That’s the dumbest damn thing I’ve ever heard,” McCoy burst. “Risan gonads ain’t gonna do a damn thing to improve Andorian fertility.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but  _ why it might  _ versus  _ if it does  _ versus  _ thinking it will  _ is a separate conversation,” Phil muttered. “The point is, the Andorian people are desperate, and many of them think this is the answer.”

“What the hell do we do?”

Phil dusted off the twenty-year-old memory as best he could. “IO cobalt and vitaxoralin infusions along with excision of the offending organs,” he answered. “Activate hemorrhage protocols. These things bleed like hell when you pull them.”

McCoy turned to one of his techs. “You heard him. Cobalt and vitaxoralin IO, stat.”

“Hanging cobalt and vitaxoralin IO.”

Phil repositioned himself, getting in line with the lavender orbs. “All right, McCoy, this is gonna take both of us,” he muttered. “See how they’re nearly flush with the mucosa there? There’s no stalk to clamp before they’re removed. Try to get under my calipers with the clamp as best you can, and I’ll try to give you enough counterpressure to seal it off as soon as I cut. Got it?”

McCoy nodded. “Yessir.”

“On three.” He took a deep breath. “One. Two.  _ Three.” _

The  _ clip-clamp  _ sound blurred together into one almost perfectly. A small amount of dusky blue blood leaked from the site, but it was minimal. Phil extracted the ovary and the oviduct and placed it in a surgical basin. He and McCoy switched sides,  _ clip-clamped  _ once more, and Phil removed the other ovary and oviduct with only minimal blood loss.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. Keep that cobalt and vitaxoralin moving. We’re gonna repair now.”

He and McCoy silently worked to seal the vessels that had fed into the Risan organs when the biobed alarm went off.

“Doctors, her pressure!” a tech shouted.

_ “Shit,”  _ McCoy spat.

“Push vasopressin, point-five milliunits per kig. Get another IO line for more vitaxoralin.”

“V-fib!”

_ “Goddammit.  _ Paddles.”

“Give another point-five milliunits per kig of vasopressin - ”

_ “Clear!... _ dammit, charging again - no, shit, what is that?”

“Rhythm’s erratic; no palpable pulse.”

“Starting compressions. Boyce, should we give vitaxoralin IM?”

“No, no, it won’t be metabolized fast enough - ”

“What about adding hepadeclor promide to the cobalt infusion?”

“You’re thinking she’ll convert it? Worth a shot. Infuse ten migs per mil of HDC into the cobalt.”

“No effect. I’ve lost a rhythm.”

Phil looked up at the biobed readout and knew. This innocent, beautiful child had no synaptic activity, no respiratory effort, and the only cardiac activity now was coming from McCoy’s chest compressions. She was gone, and for all their knowledge and technology and  _ hope,  _ they couldn’t bring her back.

“McCoy,” Phil said lowly. McCoy didn’t even look up, just continuing his compressions. “Leonard.”

McCoy’s hazel eyes were furiously flashing as he finally looked up at Phil, his hands finally ceasing their breathless stimulation of his patient’s heart.

Phil took in a long breath, then performed the worst possible duty of a doctor. “Time of death: 2154.”

~

They scrubbed out in silence. They walked down the hall to the family waiting room, with its ostensibly soothing lighting and shitty coffee and boxes of tissues on the end tables, to tell young  _ shen’s  _ family. Even though they’d primarily been dealing with McCoy since she was admitted to the hospital, Phil had to actually break the news to them; McCoy was shaking with a barely-restrained degree of rage, and Phil wanted to tamp down the explosivity of an already fraught situation.

In the break room, McCoy picked at his cuticles, his jaw clenched tightly. “Were you able to save her?” he finally asked. “The girl in your fellowship?”

“Yes,” Phil answered. “At least, in the short term. When I left Andoria she was still in critical condition, but she was alive. I contacted the Andorians to ask for an update on her a couple of times, but I never got a response.”

McCoy nodded, pursing his lips. “Maybe our gal tonight would’ve lived if she’d been on her home planet. If she’d been treated by Andorian doctors.”

“Probably not,” Phil corrected gently. “The  _ shen  _ I helped treat in my fellowship was nineteen, not nine. The doctor I was working under told me that the post-pubertal levels of vitaxoralin in her blood were what kept her alive. Unless Andoria’s found a way to drown their peds patients in the stuff since I was last there, I doubt they could’ve done any better with her than we did.”

“Small comfort, seein’ as she’s dead.”

“Leonard,” Phil implored, “don’t do this to yourself.”

McCoy looked up, his eyes burning. “I just washed a nine-year-old’s blood off my hands, Boyce. A kid I couldn’t save who died because of a  _ stupid-ass, unscientific, bullshit  _ decision her parents made  _ for  _ her. She should still be alive.”

_ “Yes, _ she should,” Phil affirmed. “But you’re a doctor, not a god. We have expertise and technology and tools, but we don’t have magical healing powers, and our ability to save people from themselves is pretty limited. We can educate them on the importance of vaccines, exercise, vegetables, condoms; but we can’t make them abide by our advice. They’ve got free will; they’re gonna do what they want. You did your duty here, Leonard. You can’t marry your worth as a physician to the choices your patients make.”

“Or their parents.”

Phil nodded somberly. “Or their parents.” 

They fell silent for a moment, Phil sipping from a mug of tea long gone cold, McCoy scrubbing his face. “For the record,” Phil finally continued, “you were amazing in there.” McCoy scoffed, but Phil forestalled his objection. “No way in hell would I have thought of adding HDC to the cobalt infusion. That was an  _ ingenious _ piece of rapid-fire thinking.”

“Which didn’t work,” McCoy finished.

“Which stood a far better chance of working than what we were already doing,” Phil corrected. “Just because it didn’t change the outcome doesn’t mean it wasn’t an incredibly smart idea. Give yourself a little credit.”

McCoy looked up to Phil, the tiniest ghost of a smile on his face. “Y’know, Jim was right about you.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “After you did his intake physical. Said you had a helluva way of makin’ people feel better, even when things were shitty.” His lips quirked. “I can see why Cap’n Pike likes havin’ you around.”

Phil smiled.


	22. Chapter 22

Phil saw it on a Tuesday. For weeks now, Chris had been telling him that he thought there was something more than friendship or fraternity going on between Len and Jim, but Phil, who by that point knew the bullet points of Len’s incredibly bitter divorce, didn’t really see Len contemplating another relationship in the near future. Then again, he didn’t have chance to see the two of them together all that often, so maybe Chris saw things Phil didn’t.

On Tuesday, though, Len was just coming on shift while Phil was coming off, and when he was halfway through putting on his coat, Phil  _ saw it. _ Jim had been following in Len’s wake, carrying two cups of coffee, one of which he handed over to Len as soon as he settled in his chair. Jim had that megawatt grin and those bright eyes, which gave no clues; but what  _ did _ grab Phil’s attention was Len, the way he was looking at Jim with such exasperation overlaying a heavy, heavy dose of fondness, like he couldn’t bear the thought of life without this pain in the ass.

_ That’s how I look at Chris, _ he thought.  _ That’s exactly how I look at Chris. _

Those two had already gotten all tangled up in one another’s gravity, whether by choice or circumstance, and there sure as hell wasn’t any way to pull them apart now. But it occurred to Phil that, if Jim and Len really were the Pike and Boyce of their generation, Len - poor, wounded-heart Len - might find himself locked in the same painful pattern of being so close and unable to touch, the one Phil knew with a sickening familiarity. The impulse to protect Len from that pain was unexpectedly strong.

Phil couldn’t tell if it was just that the situation bore too many similarities to his own, or if Chris wasn’t the only one on a little bit of a paternal kick right now. Perhaps those two options were not exclusive.

“What’re you still doin’ here?” Len asked him after Jim had headed to class. “Glutton for punishment?”

“Well, yes,” Phil conceded. “But I was just watching you and Jim. Musing how much like me and Chris you are.”

Len might’ve flushed a little; it was hard to tell on his olive skin. “He’s a pain in the ass.”

Phil nodded sagely. “So’s Chris. For some reason, we love them anyway, don’t we?”

Len narrowed his eyes at Phil, but Phil held his ground. “What’re you saying?”

“You might be able to fool an amateur, Len, but you’re talking to one of the galaxy’s leading experts on the subject,” Phil said gently. “You  _ reek _ of hopeless crush.”

“Oh,  _ get bent, _ baby-catcher,” Len scoffed, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.

Phil just inched up his eyebrows, his smile unwavering. He gave Len a moment to pout before he asked, “Am I wrong?”

Len glared at him, continued to sulk, and then put his head in his hands. “I don’t know.”

Phil nodded. “Well,” he said, clapping Len on the shoulder, “that’s not a no.”

~

_ “Pike to Boyce.” _

Phil flipped his comm. “Hi, Chrissy.”

_ “Hey. Listen, what are you doing this weekend?” _

“Working a seven-to-seven on Friday and then off till Tuesday. Why?”

On the other end of the line, Chris sighed.  _ “I got a message today from my dad.” _

Phil frowned. “Sorry, say again? It sounded like you just said you got a message from your dad.”

_ “I did.” _

Phil reached behind him for a chair. Chris hadn’t spoken to his father since he was seventeen. “What’d he say?”

_ “My grandma died and left the house to him, but he doesn’t want it so he sent the deed to me,”  _ Chris elaborated.

“Do  _ you  _ want it?” Phil asked.

_ “I’m not sure. I want to go down and clear out some of the shit I know I don’t want in case I decide to put it on the market.”  _ Chris paused; Phil could hear him sorting out the least vulnerable way to say it.  _ “I think it’d be best for me to do it with some help.” _

“When do we leave?” 

Chris let out a breath of relief.  _ “I’m already on a shuttle for 0930 on Saturday, and I can book you a seat too.” _

“I’m there.”

_ “Phil?” _

“Hm?”

_ “Thank you.”  _ His voice cracked a little.  _ “I don’t thank you enough.” _

_ Oh, Chris.  _ “It’s what we do, Chris,” Phil said quietly. “You prop me up, I prop you up.”

_ “Just...just know that it means a lot to me, okay?” _

Phil smiled fondly. “I do.”

On the shuttle to Mojave, Chris showed Phil the message his father had sent to him.

“He actually wrote  _ hope you’re well, son  _ here?” Phil said incredulously. “After thirty years?”

Chris just shrugged. “That’s Dad,” he said dully. “When I left home, he said  _ have a good life;  _ when he’s forced to get back in touch with me, it’s  _ hope you’re well.  _ God, even  _ Mom _ kept an eye on what was happening in my life, and she had more than enough of an excuse not to.”

Phil shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Chris’ tone was genuine, even though it was not, in Phil’s opinion, okay. “He wasn’t a great dad, but he also got dealt a pretty shitty hand. He did the best he knew how to do; it just wasn’t very good.” He smiled a little. “He’d have done a lot better if they had been ready for me, I think. They both might have.”

Phil smiled. “It’s why we call it  _ family planning.” _

Chris laughed. “I’m the poster child. Which took rather an ironic turn the day I knocked up my girlfriend.”

Phil burst out laughing. The mere fact that Chris could joke about that surprised and delighted him.

When they touched down in Mojave, got their rental car, and started to make their way toward Chris’ childhood home, Phil got the mini-tour of the town through Chris’ eyes that he’d wanted when they’d come here after Emily had died ten years ago. Chris pointed out the street his elementary school was on, the diner where he and Erin had first met, and the church where his grandfather’s funeral was held. The memories were clearly bittersweet, but Chris was smiling as he related them, and it made Phil feel warm all over to imagine Chris as a precious child or an awkward teenager in all these spots.

Though, admittedly, thirty years, crow’s feet, and a full head of grey hair hadn’t done  _ shit  _ to diminish how beautiful that damn man was.

They were driving through a more run-down, neglected area of town when Chris tapped his fingernail against his window at a stoplight. “See that?”

Phil shook his head. “What am I looking at? That empty lot on the corner?”

“Yeah,” Chris murmured. “The apartment we lived in when I was born used to be there.”

“Really?” Phil didn’t know exactly what it was that surprised him. He’d known that Chris’ parents were dirt poor and that the only reason Chris survived toddlerhood was due to public assistance for vaccines and diapers and food; but even then, he’d never really been able to picture what kind of life that must’ve been like.

“Yeah,” Chris sighed. “They tore it down when I was in high school, and they just never did anything else with it.” He pointed to the sidewalk. “Grandpa told me I took my first steps right there. He was crossing the street toward me, and I walked right to him.”

The mental image wrapped itself right around Phil’s heart. For some reason, he felt inclined to look up at the street signs, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re telling me that you learned how to walk on  _ Philips  _ Avenue?”

Chris grinned at him. “Some things never change.”

Chris’ grandparents’ house - rather,  _ Chris’  _ house now - was decidedly  _ not  _ in the dilapidated area of town, though it was far from a mansion. From the outside, it looked like a very nice, though not fancy, modest-sized single-family home, remarkable only for the people who’d once inhabited it. As soon as Chris opened the front door, he fell silent, just standing in the threshold and staring into the living room.

“Chris?” Phil said gently. “You okay?” He craned his neck, trying to get a better glimpse of the house’s interior, but those extra couple centimeters Chris had on him were making it tough to see clearly.

“Yeah,” Chris whispered, nodding numbly. “Nothing’s changed.” He moved into the house, stooping to pick up a coaster on the coffee table. “Nothing’s changed at all.”

Phil put his hands in his pockets. “You okay?” he asked again.

Chris nodded again. “I’m okay.” He shook his head. “I just never thought I’d be back here.”

~

“All right, the crew at the donation drop-off are starting to give me some weird-ass looks,” Phil muttered, dusting his hands off on his jeans as he walked into the house. “Next time,  _ you’re  _ taking the - Chris?” He peered around; the kitchen was empty, as were both bedrooms, the bathroom, and the study. “Chris?”

“I’m up here,” Chris called from above.

Phil frowned, climbing up a set of somewhat rickety stairs to find…“Oh.”

A second-hand dresser in the corner. A double bed, neatly made with a navy blue duvet on it. A nightstand with a dog-eared paperback book on it. A sheer, pale blue curtain over the window.

_ “All the President’s Men,”  _ Chris said softly, touching the book. “I was almost done, only thirty pages left, but I forgot to pack it.” He shook his head, looking around the room. “This is all the same, too. It doesn’t look like anybody’s been up here since I left.” He sank heavily onto the bed. “This is fucking  _ weird,  _ Phil.”

Phil sat next to him, draping an arm around his shoulders. There wasn’t really anything he could say to counter the weirdness of the situation, so he didn’t try to.

Chris picked at the duvet, smiling slightly. “I lost my virginity in this bed. How weird is that?”

Phil chuckled. “I lost my virginity in a hayloft. Emotional considerations aside, I think I win.”

Chris laughed, then flopped down onto the bed on his back, scrubbing his face. “Did you ever expect it to be this  _ weird?”  _ he asked. “Getting older? Dealing with all this?”

Phil sighed and flopped down next to Chris. “Weird? Yes.  _ This _ weird? Not so much.” He raised an eyebrow at Chris. “Wait till you turn fifty.”

_ “Ugh,”  _ Chris sighed. “Who’s gonna be cleaning out  _ our  _ shit when  _ we  _ die?”

Phil shrugged. “Jim and Len, probably.”

That made a little smile cross Chris’ face. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You’re probably right.”

Phil looked over to the blue-curtained window, at the sky starting to ebb into kaleidoscopic purple and pink as the sun set. There was a little irregularity in the event horizon of the windowsill, almost like…

“What’s that?”

Chris turned his head. “What’s what?”

Phil sat up and swiveled toward the window. “There’s something on the sill here.” He brushed the curtain aside and picked it up; it was a little envelope, kind of like the ones he’d use to send patients home with a small supply of pills, with something small but bulky inside. Chris’ name was on the front in small, blocky print that looked nothing like Chris’ own handwriting. Phil handed it over. “It’s got your name on it.”

Frowning, Chris took it and looked at the handwriting, his mind visibly hiccuping at what he saw. “That’s Grandpa’s writing,” he murmured, his voice low and awed and a little confused. He popped the seal on the envelope and dropped the contents into his hand.

It was... _ a ring?  _ Phil was confused - it didn’t look like a wedding ring, and he rather doubted Chris would’ve wanted his grandfather’s wedding ring anyway - and Chris looked a little confused, too. He brought it closer to his face, examining it; it was titanium, with no stone, and had intricate detailing on both sides of a large shield of some kind in the middle. Phil could see the number  _ 2172  _ engraved on the side of the band that faced him.

“Oh god, I know what this is,” Chris whispered. “Look.” He held the ring out closer to Phil; when he looked, now he could see the faint relief of the Academy logo embossed in the shield sitting in the center of the ring. “This is his Academy ring.”

That would’ve made sense. The Academy stopped giving out class rings around the turn of the century, but they were still very much a thing back when Chris’ grandfather had entered Starfleet. “How old would he have been in ‘72?”

Chris frowned. “Twenty-two, twenty-three? Why?”

Phil pointed the number out. “His graduation year?”

Chris huffed out a breath of a laugh. “I’ll be damned, Grandpa.” He slipped the ring onto his right ring finger, holding his hand out for inspection. “What do you think?”

Phil smiled. “It suits you.”

Chris looked from the ring, up to the window, where the stars were starting to come out. As if on autopilot, his hands reached out, fiddled with the lock, and opened the window, letting a mild fall breeze enter the room. He folded his lanky body out the window, up onto the roof of the house.

Phil stayed inside. The roof of this house was a sacred place for Chris - the place he’d come with his grandfather when he’d needed respite from the disquiet of the interior of the house, the place he learned how to fall in love with the stars above him, where he’d come to celebrate and mourn and discover and breathe. The place where he felt the most love he ever felt as a little boy. It was important, Phil thought, that he respect that process, that he respect Chris’ solitude in the closest thing he had to a house of worship.

“Hey,” Chris said, turning to him. “C’mere.”

Phil looked at him and blinked. “I...really?”

Chris held out his hand. “C’mon. I want you to see this.”

_ Invitations into another’s sacred space are, in and of themselves, sacred. _

Phil felt very conscious of the magnitude of that invitation. He grabbed Chris’ hand, made his way out the window - with a little “careful, watch your head” from Chris - and hopped out next to Chris, where he looked up at the perfect blanket of blue velvet speckled with tiny pinpricks of light. “Oh, wow,” he breathed.

Chris smiled serenely. “Yeah,” he whispered. “No wonder I fell in love. Who could see that and resist it?”

_ I know the feeling. _

They stood in silence for a few minutes, just staring at the blanket of stars above them. When Chris spoke again, it was on a heavy sigh. “I can’t do it. I can’t sell this place.” He shook his head. “I mean, maybe in a few years. Maybe I’ll never use this place again. But…” He gestured up to the sky. “I can’t let it go yet. I can’t let  _ this  _ go yet.”

Phil smiled. “I get it.”

“You don’t think that’s stupid?”

“No,” Phil said softly. “I know what it’s like to not be able to let go.”

~

It was a rough shift for Phil, not in terms of particularly challenging or complex cases, but just in terms of sheer patient volume and its associated chaos. He’d been pulled from a scheduled hysterectomy to assist Dr. Garrett in a stat twin c-section at thirty weeks, then to the ED to assess post-menopausal bleeding in a retired admiral that did  _ not  _ look like it would have a good outcome, then to go assist one of his panicking first-years with a precipitous delivery, then  _ back  _ to the ED for an acute abdomen in one of his routine prenatal patients, then  _ back  _ up to the OR for an appendectomy on said patient. He was utterly fried by the end of his shift, his feet and back screaming like they hadn’t since residency, and he wondered, for the briefest of moments, if he was getting too old for this.

_ Don’t judge your entire life by one rough day. _

Sitting down for the first time in hours, Phil opened his comm and looked at his messages. There were two from Chris, sent one right after the other that morning.

_ “Just had interesting meeting w/Kirk. Meet at O’Reilly’s after your shift.” _

Phil was wiped, but a drink with his best friend  _ did  _ sound nice right now.

_ “This one’s on you, if you follow.” _

It took Phil’s cortisol-addled brain a second to get it, then... _ oh! _

Once Phil had come over to Chris’ side of the fence in agreeing that, no, the feelings between Len and Jim were not those of just roommates or best friends, Chris had bet Phil a beer that the two of them would get together before they graduated from the Academy. Phil had vehemently disagreed, thinking it would take more time for them to dig their heads out of their asses - maybe a lot more time. (It is possible he was not entirely unbiased in that thinking.) But now, Chris seemed to be implying that he had emerged from their wager victorious, which would mean that Len and Jim were a thing now. The thought was a warm and sweet one.

_ “Dr. Boyce, please report to PACU. Dr. Boyce to PACU.” _

He sighed, punching out a text to Chris -  _ “Be there soon - bringing my wallet” -  _ and headed to check on his post-op patient.

By the time he walked into O’Reilly’s an hour later, Chris already had a  _ very  _ healthy start. Phil had long ago defined the Five Stages of Drunkenness of the Californian Pike: stage one was  _ tipsy,  _ stage two was  _ uninhibited,  _ stage three was  _ giggly,  _ stage four was  _ melancholy,  _ and stage five was  _ let’s do molly in Mexico because nothing matters.  _ Right now, Phil ballparked him at somewhere between three and four.

“Hoo boy,” he muttered, walking up to the bar and sitting next to Chris. “I believe our bet was for  _ one  _ beer, Christopher, so the other... _ six  _ are on you.”

Chris responded with a giggle, so apparently they were still in stage three. Phil nodded to the bartender to get him one of what Chris had. “To Len and Jim?”

Chris knocked his bottle to Phil’s. “Len and Jim.”

Phil took a sip of his beer and leaned on the bar. “So. How together are they?”

Chris thumbed at the label on his bottle. “Together enough for wake-up blowjobs, evidently.”

Phil had...just  _ so  _ many questions. “Do I...do I  _ want  _ to know how you know that?”

Another giggle. “No, no. Jim ambushed me at the apartment. He wanted advice.”

Phil arched an eyebrow. “Blowjob advice?”  _ Seems I’d be the resident expert on that particular subject. _

Chris snorted, taking another sip and focusing on curling the label off the bottle from the edge without tearing it. “So they finally got it together,” he said softly. “Why the hell can’t I?”

_ Attention, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals, we are approaching stage four.  _ “Uh oh. We’re about to get maudlin here, aren’t we?”

“It just made me  _ think,  _ that’s all. Is this just how it’s  _ supposed  _ to be? Do I have a one? Where’s my one? Why can’t I divide evenly?”

Phil blinked at him uncomprehendingly.  _ “Why can’t you -  _ okay. Okay, you know what, Chrissy? I’m gonna settle up our tabs and take you home and then we’ll talk about it, okay?”

Chris nodded, his lower lip out in a pretty but exaggerated pout. “Mmkay, Phil.”

The walk from O’Reilly’s to Chris’ apartment was not a long one, but with Chris mumbling under his breath about  _ “such a prime number”  _ and  _ “just confused”  _ and other random phrases that made Phil have to say  _ “what?”  _ every ten seconds, it didn’t just feel like a few blocks. Once they finally got up to the seventh floor of his building and Phil helped him remember how door locks worked, Chris walked in, and before Phil could even turn on the light, heaved all two-hundred pounds of himself onto his couch, face down.

“Ow,” he mumbled into a cushion, his face smushed.

Phil shook his head.  _ Sweet disaster.  _ “Budge over,” he muttered, kicking Chris gently to make some space. Chris arranged himself into a slouched, but semi-seated position, and Phil sat next to him. “C’mon. Talk to me.”

For a second, Chris was silent, staring at the coffee table. Then, in a whine wholly unbecoming his forty-seven years, he said, “I need a girlfriend.”

_ God, I don’t know if I have the energy for this conversation tonight.  _ “I mean, I guess it has been a while - ”

“But I don’t even  _ want  _ a girlfriend.”

Phil frowned. “Uh. Well. If you don’t  _ want  _ one, then you definitely don’t  _ need  _ one, so - ”

“But if I had one, do you think it would go away?” Chris asked morosely. “Or at least, if it didn’t go away, maybe I just wouldn’t notice it so much, all this  _ weird shit  _ I’m feeling?”

“Chris, honestly, pal, I have  _ no idea  _ what you’re talking about; could you just - ”

Chris put his head in his hands and muttered something too garbled for Phil to understand. Then, he said, “But why do I want to kiss  _ you?” _

Phil Boyce was an articulate man. He’d been raised bilingual in English and French since birth, had satisfied his Academy language requirement with study of various human and alien sign languages, spoke some passable Bajoran, and could read, but not really speak, a little Arabic. But for all the words he knew in all the languages he had at his disposal for communication, none of them had a word to encompass the emotional storm that hit him after Chris had said those eight words - an intense mixture of anger, doubt, confusion, and frustration, with this shimmering undercurrent of  _ hope  _ underneath it all. It was an awful, awful moment of Phil seeing this perfect, bubbling spring and thinking that it surely  _ had  _ to be a mirage, that you don’t wander in the desert for most of your life and then get so lucky as to find everything you’ve ever wanted all at once, that those things just didn’t happen.

“You’re  _ terrifically _ drunk, Chris.”

There was that pout again. “‘m really not.”

Then the anger took the lead. Because how  _ dare  _ he. How  _ dare  _ Chris say something like that. Even if he  _ was  _ totally oblivious to how Phil felt, even if he  _ didn’t  _ have a goddamn clue, how fucking  _ awful  _ of him to dangle this goddamn bi-curious carrot in front of his out bisexual best friend. Phil thought he was better than that. “Christopher - ”

“It’s just so  _ easy  _ with you,” Chris cut him off. “We just...we  _ know  _ one another, right? We  _ click.  _ Inside out and backwards. We’ve been living in each other’s back pockets for thirty years and we couldn’t untangle from each other if we tried. You know all my dirty laundry and character flaws and weird shit, like being married to my job or acquiring pseudo-sons accidentally; and I know yours, like your...I dunno...how you burn the bacon in the mornings, or your tendency to get arrested.” He stopped and swallowed, looking miserable and confused. “And I know, I know, I’m supposed to be straight, I never questioned it; but...but maybe I’m not. Or I’m just less so than I thought, or it’s conditional, like I just have one big exception to the rule. Or maybe I’ve just been lying to myself for forty-seven years; I don’t fucking know. I just...I feel...I want...”

_ Wait a minute. Wait. Is this…? Is he…? Is this real? _

Everything started to fizzle at the edges of Phil’s vision. Everything out the window, his own shadow from the light on over the stove, the PADD and car keys and lip balm on the coffee table. It was all holy and unlanguagable again, like it had been thirty years ago when a blond cadet one up and one over from Phil had been struck by a sunbeam,  _ interdependent, complementary, expansive, beautiful.  _ The world receded at the same time it expanded into something bigger than it had been before.

_ Oh my god,  _ Phil realized.  _ Oh my god, he’s not just drunk or lonely or kidding or being an asshole. I think he’s being real. I think this is real. _

_ Never ignore your intuition. It is smarter than you are. _

Chris buried his head in his hands. “Oh  _ god,  _ why did I just say that, why did I just say  _ any  _ of that; it was going  _ fine,  _ Chris, and then you open your  _ stupid fucking mouth  _ and ruin the one relationship in your life that really  _ matters.  _ This is why you’re  _ not  _ allowed to say shit; this is why you’ve gotta - ”

Phil blinked, watching this precious creature, this extraordinary man, this sweet disaster who’d wrapped himself around Phil’s heart and, for better or worse, had never let it go, and felt that little fountain of hope start to drown out the doubt and fear and all the reasons he’d ever had for not giving voice to the realest truth he knew.

Twenty-nine years, six months, and nineteen days proved to be Phil’s limit.

_ Stop talking. Start living. _

“Shut up,” Phil implored. He leaned in, tried to detach himself from the outcome, and kissed Chris.

It wasn’t a lip-bruising, teeth-knocking kiss, nor a barely-there brush of the lips; it wasn’t a peck, nor a prelude to a softcore film. This was a kiss based purely on intuition, on the encyclopedic reserve of knowledge Phil had on the subject of Chris Pike. It wasn’t anything like Phil had imagined it would be, either; Chris was far more tentative than he’d expected, though that was probably more circumstantial than anything, his lips softer and more yielding; when Phil’s thumb grazed behind his earlobe, his jaw fluttered a little at the sensation.

It wasn’t until they broke apart that the reality of what had just happened hit Phil. If he’d been wrong - if he’d read this the wrong way - then it was entirely possible that he’d just irreparably broken his relationship with Chris, which made him feel dizzy and queasy. But if he had been right, he might just get everything he’d wanted since he was twenty-three.

“Phil?” Chris said, his voice tiny.

Phil didn’t look up. He couldn’t make eye contact with Chris. Not yet. “You left an open door,” he said softly. “Didn’t know if I’d ever have the chance again. I just...had to.” He forced himself to be brave, to look up at Chris’ soft, languid grey-blue eyes, to not be afraid of what he might see in them.

Chris had a little furrow between his brows, as if he was trying to assemble a complicated puzzle in his mind. That kiss seemed to have sobered him  _ right  _ up, and all the melancholy had melted away. When he spoke again, his voice quivered a little. “Are...are you in love with me?”

Phil couldn’t help it. He laughed. Just a little, gentle laugh, but he  _ had  _ to laugh. Because  _ only Chris  _ would be on the receiving end of a kiss like that, cast against the backdrop of his entire relationship with Phil, and come out of it asking the  _ question  _ of whether or not Phil was in love with him. Only Chris would still have an ounce of doubt. “Oh, Christopher.”

Chris shifted a little closer to Phil. “Since when?” he whispered.

Phil shrugged. “Since forever.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

_ Oh, come on, Chrissy.  _ Phil gave him a Look. “Why do you think?” he said, not unkindly. “You think you were the only one who thought you were straight?”

Chris’ entire face fell. He reached up, brushing a lock of hair off Phil’s forehead; Phil’s eyes fluttered closed as he did. Chris’ fingertips stroked down his cheek and jaw, his thumb landing on the pad of Phil’s lips. “Oh, Phil,” he sighed. “I’ve put you through hell, haven’t I?”

Phil blinked up at him and couldn’t find it in him to lie. “A little bit.”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut and knocked his forehead against Phil’s gently. “I’m so stupid,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry it took me so long.”

Phil shook his head, putting his hand on Chris’ cheek. “The man I love isn’t stupid,” he said softly. “And he gets there in the end.”

_ Love. No matter what. _

A little tear glittered on Chris’ cheek as he smiled and leaned in to kiss Phil again.

~

“‘re you sleepy?”

“Mmrph. No.”

“Mmkay. Me neither.”

“Jus’ restin’ my eyes.”

“‘Kay.”


	23. Chapter 23

Phil slept more soundly than he had since he was a child, and when he woke, he let his other senses come alive before his eyes. He had a little crick in his neck from the solid plane of muscle on which his head was resting. He felt warm and safe and like everything was okay, and when he breathed in, he smelled coffee, sugar, half-credit citrus-scented shampoo - deconstructed notes of Chris. His ear was pressed against a steady, soothing  _ lub-dub, lub-dub,  _ and there was a hand in his hair, stroking it back from his forehead, massaging his scalp with a light touch. When he finally opened his eyes, it was sunrise, and newborn rays were falling crisp and sharp over Chris’ hardwood floor, revealing a different world than the one it had set on the night before.

The reality, the intimacy, the fulfillment, the  _ truth,  _ all came back to Phil in gentle, rolling waves. He raised his head and looked up, and Chris was smiling at him with so much undiluted affection in his eyes that it made Phil’s heart seize up.

“Hey,” Chris murmured, not moving his hand from Phil’s hair.

“Hey.” Phil shifted a little, wanting to get more comfortable without breaking contact. “You sober?”

Chris nodded. “A little hungover, but not bad.”

Phil bit his bottom lip. It was a little swollen. “D’you still…”

Chris’ smile stretched into a grin.  _ “Oh,  _ yeah.”

What was the right emotional response to this surreal, golden moment of getting something you’d always assumed was irrevocably out of reach? Part of Phil wanted to laugh, part of him wanted to cry; part of him wanted to call Captain Mehl and thank her for giving him that demerit thirty years ago that brought him to Chris’ attention, to call his parents and thank them for having him, to call Charlie and thank him for pulling him from the ice when he was eleven and allowing him to live long enough to experience this feeling.

He would probably do all that, eventually. But for now, morning breath be damned, he cupped Chris’ cheek and kissed him again, letting his heart and mind and soul absorb the fact that  _ you don’t have to hurt about this anymore. _

There was a lot they still had to talk about and come to terms with - how to handle this new development with Starfleet, whether or not they should move back in together, the fact that Chris had never been with a guy before and there would be standard-issue awkwardness there. But there was time to go through all that later.

For now, Phil just wanted to collide and burn.

~

In the first few months of being Chris Pike’s partner, Phil catalogued several observations.

_ 1\. He was very physically affectionate. _

This shouldn’t have surprised Phil all that much. Chris had always had a kind of touchy-feely baseline, certainly with his partners and even in a platonic context. But where Chris had always caught himself before, always jolted a little with that blurry line of  _ how much is too much with Phil?,  _ the tentativeness and uncertainty seemed to be bleeding away now. He stopped hesitating. He let his muscles go slack, no longer taut with anticipation of the need to spring away. And when he wanted contact, he no longer stopped himself from reaching for it - Phil’s hand in the car, Phil’s waist in the kitchen, Phil’s whole body in bed.

Phil knew - Phil had always known - that Chris was excruciatingly touch-starved, that his relationship with physical affection was colored by his upbringing and his self-abasement and a not-insignificant helping of toxic masculinity, which was no doubt sharpened by the process of acknowledging he was queer in his late forties. That decades-old observation that Chris was at once  _ desperate _ for touch and  _ terrified _ of it had been absolutely correct, and it had become more evident in the last few years. Now, though, Chris knew that he was safe, he knew that this was okay, and he trusted that this wouldn’t hurt him. That  _ Phil  _ wouldn’t hurt him.

That trust was one of Phil’s most sacred possessions.

“Tell me if I get too clingy,” he’d muttered anxiously into Phil’s shoulder one night.

Phil just kissed the top of his head. “Not gonna happen.”

_ 2\. He wanted so, so badly to make Phil happy. _

The slightly weird thing about Phil and Chris becoming  _ Phil-and-Chris  _ was that the whole ritualistic purpose of  _ dating  _ had already long since been satisfied. They already knew one another better than they knew themselves; there was no need to exchange questions about hometowns and favorite colors over garlic bread. Nevertheless, it seemed important to Chris that they have a proper  _ first date,  _ so they could then have a proper anniversary of a  _ first date.  _

“Me kissing you and telling you I’d been in love with you since the day we met wasn’t an adequate first date?” Phil teased. Chris poked him in the sides.

Even though they’d been talking about it, when Phil came home from a twelve-hour shift, his back aching and the smell of amniotic fluid still stuck in his sinuses, he wasn’t expecting to see Chris in his dining room, in a perfectly tailored civilian suit, lighting a candle.

Phil bit his tongue before remembering he didn’t have to anymore.  _ “Oh,  _ you’re lovely.”

Chris looked up and grinned, walking over to thread his arms around Phil’s waist. “Hi,” he said. “Happy first date.”

Phil sighed happily and shook his head. “You’re amazing.”

Chris kissed him on the forehead. “You hungry?”

Phil’s eyes grew wide. “You  _ cooked?!” _

Chris guffawed. “Your house is still standing; of course I didn’t  _ cook.  _ I ordered from Faccia Bella.”

Phil dropped his medkit in shock. “Are you serious? Faccia Bella in Berkeley? That place is a hundred and twenty credits a plate!”

“I know,” Chris said with a tiny smile. “And their spinach ravioli in sage butter is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. I was there. I remember.”

Phil shook his head and buried his face into Chris’ neck, replacing the hospital smells with Chris smells. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

Chris kissed the top of his head. “No, baby, you’re not.”

Phil pressed his ear to Chris’ chest, hearing his heartbeat. “Sometimes I still can’t believe this is real.”

“Well,” Chris rumbled, “let’s try to make you believe it.”

_ 3\. Little brought him more joy than telling people he and Phil were together. _

The first person to know that Chris and Phil were a couple was Jim, who saw them kiss the first morning  _ after  _ stared at them in slack-jawed delight; but the first person Chris and Phil actually  _ told  _ was Phil’s mom.

“We have some news,” Phil prefaced, giving Chris a little glance out of the corner of his eye.

On the other side of the vid screen, Mom arched an eyebrow.  _ “News?” _

“Yes,” Chris said with a smile. Out of frame, he squeezed Phil’s hand. “Jen, I’ve recently figured out that I’m in love with your son.”

Phil could count on one hand how many times he’d seen his mother cry in his entire life, and the number of times she’d been struck speechless was even lower, but that news did the trick on both fronts.

_ “Oh, my dear boys,”  _ she said softly, stroking her thumb along the screen.  _ “I’ve wanted this for so long. So, so long.” _

Chris grinned, wiping a tear off his cheek. “So have we,” he whispered.

_ “I was starting to wonder if Henry and I would live to see it,”  _ she continued wetly.  _ “I’m so damn glad we did.” _

The next person they told was Erin, which took some finagling of an Earth-to-Betazed call.

“So, remember how, after Becca and I got divorced, you told me I should look at broadening my type?”

Erin narrowed her eyes at the screen warily.  _ “Uh huh…” _

Chris nodded. “Well...I took your advice.” He held up his and Phil’s joined hands to show Erin, and they both grinned like idiots.

Erin’s jaw dropped.  _ “Rexie!”  _ she screamed behind her.  _ “Rexie, get in here! He did it! Chris finally pulled his head out of his ass!” _

Phil chuckled, and Chris pressed his forehead onto Phil’s shoulder, his body shaking with laughter. “Guess I deserve that.”

Phil’s favorite response, though, came from Laura, in the form of a text comm because she was out in the boonies on the Lovell.

_ “Gentlemen - Thank you ever so much for passing on that news right in the middle of a morning briefing. I just had to explain to my Vulcan XO what ‘tears of joy’ are and I think I might’ve been about thirty percent successful. Chris, I’m proud of you for finally being honest with yourself. You’re smart enough to know that you’ve felt this way forever - it just took you a damn long time to acknowledge it. Phil, I can only begin to imagine how light your heart must feel after all this time. You have always brought comfort and joy and light into one another’s lives, and each of you is so much better for knowing and loving the other. I’m so happy you can now flourish the way you were always meant to. Boys, don’t ever, ever let each other go. Love, L.” _

They read it sitting next to one another, and both of them were crying before it was over.

“You okay?” Chris asked gently, wiping a tear off Phil’s cheek.

Phil smiled and nodded. “Yeah. How do you feel?”

Chris laughed and gestured to the message on his terminal. “Honest. You?”

Phil closed his eyes and leaned into Chris’ side. “Light.”

_ 4\. He walked like he was in command even when he was naked. _

It was three in the morning when the ground gave a huge jolt underneath Phil’s house, waking him and Chris with a start.

“Earthquake,” Phil muttered instinctively. Then the tinkling crash of glass shattering on linoleum sounded.  _ “Shit.” _

Lightning fast, Chris sprung from bed and dashed into the hallway. Phil followed him a little more carefully, because aftershocks were a thing, and found Chris in the kitchen. His hands were on his hips, surveying the glittering glass shards on Phil’s kitchen floor, and he seemed totally unaware that he was still naked as the day he was born.

“Well, looks like your Pyrex set is done for,” he muttered.

“‘s okay,” Phil said over a yawn. “They can be replaced. I’m just glad it wasn’t a window.”

“Yeah, me too - what?” Chris said, looking up and seeing Phil’s smiling face.

“Nothing,” Phil said mildly. “Just getting a little insight into what it looked like in your quarters during a three a.m. red alert on the Lovell.”

Chris flushed halfway down his chest. “Captains wear clothes to bed.”

Phil nodded to Chris’ naked form. “I beg to differ,  _ Captain.” _

Chris raised an eyebrow at Phil and curled his lips into a smirk. 

They left the Pyrex shards there on the floor until well into the afternoon.

_ 5\. He was still kicking his own ass. _

“Hey,” he asked, “can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

Chris audibly swallowed, running his fingers against the nap of the blanket. “What’s the worst thing I did to you without knowing how much it hurt you?”

Phil stared at Chris with a deep frown on his face, then shook his head. “No. No, I’m not answering that.”

“Look, I spent thirty years being an oblivious dumbass and doing stupid shit that hurt the most important person in my world. You deserve an opportunity to call me on it.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to call you on it.”

“Phil - ”

_ “No,  _ Chris,” Phil finally said. “I’m not going to participate in this episode of Chris Pike’s Self-Flagellation Theatre. All of that is behind us. It happened. We can’t change it. And it all  _ had  _ to unfold the way it did so we could get to this point.” He shrugged. “Growth hurts. Change hurts. The pain doesn’t negate the worth. Why do you think anyone ever has more than one kid? It’s because the pain of birth is worth the final outcome.”

Chris was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands. “Okay,” he murmured. “But for the record, it’s not about self-flagellation. It’s about amends.” He looked up at Phil. “I want to know what this was like for you. I want your story, because I never want to hurt you like that again.”

They fell quiet for a long, long moment, and it was only because Chris kept shifting position periodically that Phil knew he was still awake. Finally, he took a deep breath and reached out for Chris’ hand. “Marrying you and Becca,” he murmured. “That...that was really hard.”

Chris rolled to his side, facing Phil, and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing soft kisses all over his face. “I’m so sorry, Phil,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

“You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known.”

“Doesn’t make it okay.”

“Chrissy, don’t do this to yourself,” Phil whispered. “Look at us. We’re in your bed together. You’re kissing my face. I already have more than I ever thought I would.”

Chris pressed his forehead against Phil’s. “I can’t bear that I hurt you like that,” he whispered.

Phil cupped his cheek and smiled. “Some scars are sweet scars, love.”

_ 6\. He was still Chris. _

The best and most surprising thing for Phil was that romance and sex did absolutely  _ nothing  _ to change the fact that Chris and Phil were still inseparable best friends before they were anything else. Chris was still Phil’s One Phone Call if he ever got arrested (though he’d been controlling himself on that front for a long while), and Phil was still the person Chris would call at two in the morning because his bed felt too big for one person. Phil still got on Chris’ case about the amount of sugar he put in his coffee, and Chris still sighed and shook his head in fond exasperation when Phil spent a long time comparison-shopping spices. 

When Phil had tortured himself with  _ what ifs _ before, he had always wondered if a shift in title from  _ friend  _ to  _ partner  _ would complicate or compromise or in some way alter the cell-deep bond that he and Chris depended on. It’s not that things didn’t change when they became a couple - they did - or that the transition was always straightforward - it wasn’t. But instead of changing shape entirely, their relationship just took on a new dimension. Kind of like adding espresso powder to a chocolate cake. It didn’t make it  _ not  _ a chocolate cake; it just gave it a rich complexity, an extra depth of flavor, bringing with it new surprises and new discoveries.

When Phil told Chris this, Chris smiled and ran his fingers through Phil’s hair. “You’re a gigantic fucking sap, you know that, right?”

_ Case in point.  _ Phil leaned into Chris’ side.  _ “Your  _ gigantic fucking sap.”

“Damn right.”

~

“Look what I brought in out of the rain.”

Phil turned from Chris’ stove. Jim Kirk was standing next to Chris, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“A waterlogged James Dean wannabe who needs to listen to his doctor and quit smoking?” Phil teased. Chris snorted. Jim gave a bashful smile.

Chris patted Jim’s back. “Go dry off. Towels are in the linen closet.”

Jim saluted. “Aye, sir.”

Chris rolled his eyes once Jim walked off, pecking Phil on the lips. “Hi.”

“Hi. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Chris sighed, threading his arms around Phil’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder, watching his hands stir the chili. “We just knocked heads a little bit today.”

“You and Jim, having a tiff?” Phil snorted. “In other breaking news, water is wet, Vulcans like logic, and Admiral Marcus is an ass.”

“Nah, this one’s my fault,” Chris admitted. “I said things I shouldn’t have said. But in my defense, he was being an obstinate little shit.”

“Like father, like son.”

_ “Hey now.” _

“Hand me the oregano, would you?”

“Apparently Len’s in Georgia with his daughter for the holidays,” Chris clarified, grabbing the herb. “I couldn’t stand the idea of Jim alone in his dorm. Especially not at this time of year.”

Phil turned his head, trying to see Chris’ close silhouette in the corner of his eye, and smiled fondly. “They all think you’re a hardass, love, but you’re pure marshmallow fluff on the inside.”

Chris narrowed his eyes and smiled at Phil. “You take that back, Dr. Boyce.”

“Make me.”

Chris kissed him to shut him up, and they didn’t stop until Jim came back into the room. “Aww, my college advisor and my primary care physician are necking; how sweet.”

Chris turned to Jim with an exaggerated glare. “Get your beer and sit down, you reprobate.”

Phil could’ve sworn he heard Jim mutter  _ “your  _ reprobate.” He looked over to Chris. Chris looked down and smiled.


	24. Chapter 24

“Phiiiilip.”

Phil moaned and nuzzled his face into the pillow further. “Mmrph. No.”

Chris chuckled lowly behind him and kissed the back of his neck. “C’mon. Time to get up.”

Phil grabbed Chris’ hand and secured it firmly around his own waist.  _ If you can’t get your hand back, you can’t get up, either.  _ “No.”

“C’mon, babe,” Chris cajoled. “You’ve got surgery at 0730, and I’ve gotta be in the office to console Jim when he fails the Kobayashi Maru for the third time today.”

Phil tugged on Chris’ arm. “Let’s call in sick,” he mumbled. “And spend all day in bed under the covers. ‘s cold out there.”

“I’d love that,” Chris murmured. “But your patient needs you.”

Phil whimpered, rolling over to face Chris and reluctantly opening his eyes. “Dirty play, Chrissy. You know my patients are my kryptonite.”

Chris smiled and kissed him. “Yes, love. I know all your soft spots.”

With immense protest from his body, Phil did as he was asked. A hot shower and some coffee made him feel a little more human, and they took Chris’ car into work, with its fancy heated seats. Chris didn’t technically have to be anywhere until 0800, but he left an hour early just to take Phil in. “What am I gonna do, let you go out in the cold by yourself just so I can have some extra time in bed?” It made Phil melt.

For as demonstrative a relationship as they had, Phil and Chris tried to rein it in a little on Starfleet grounds. They certainly weren’t going to hide or deny their relationship, but they were going to keep it as professional as possible when they were in uniform. So it surprised and delighted Phil when, as Chris prepared to walk over to his Academy office from Medical, he wrapped his arms around Phil and kissed him dizzyingly slow.

When they broke the kiss, Phil was a little lightheaded. “Whoa.” He looked up at his grinning partner. “We’re in uniform, sweetheart.”

Chris shrugged. “I don’t care.”

_ “Dr. Boyce, please call OR-1. Dr. Boyce, OR-1.” _

“Go be brilliant,” Chris murmured. “See you tonight. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

~

_ “Attention, all officers: Starfleet Command has received a distress call from Vulcan. On-duty officers in good standing are being dispatched. Personnel not deployed should stand by for further developments.” _

Phil only processed about twenty percent of the PA announcement. Something about Vulcan, distress call, officers and cadets? Whatever; this artery was being a pain in the ass, and as long as they weren’t about to pull  _ him  _ away from it, they could do what they liked. Chris was probably among those being deployed to assist, but it was only Vulcan; in a galactic society, that was just a stone’s throw away, and he’d probably be home by suppertime.

_ Beep-beep-bzzt. Beep-beep-bzzt. _

“Ben, could you come over and see who’s comming me?”

“Yessir.” Ben pulled Phil’s comm from his pocket, opened it, and read aloud.  _ “Quick trip to Vulcan. Distress call. While I’m gone…”  _ Ben paused, smiling behind his mask as his voice turned amused.  _ “While I’m gone, smack Jim for me. Long story. Tell you later. xo.” _

Phil smiled. “Sponge, please.” He shook his head in fond exasperation. “Oh, boys. What have you gotten up to now?”

Once he’d scrubbed out an hour later, he sent a text back to Chris.  _ I can do that. Love you. _

It was the last normal thing that happened that day. After that, things went to hell pretty comprehensively.

_ “Attention, all officers: It is our solemn duty to report that Starfleet Command has received word that the planet Vulcan, home to six billion of our allies and friends, has been destroyed due to extreme geologic instability of unknown cause. We have no word on Vulcan or Federation casualties at this time. Please stand by for new reports.” _

The silence that descended over the floor was deafening. No one - staff or patient, Starfleet or civilian, human or alien - seemed to be able to grasp the magnitude of what had just been announced. Several people around Phil looked helplessly around the room, as if trying to figure out what they should do and how they could help a situation sixteen light years away. A few had their hands pressed to their mouths in horrified shock. Most were just staring numbly into space.

Phil fell into the last category.  _ T’Val. Spock. Sakan. Please, all of you, be okay.  _ Under it all, he felt his heart beating up against the old photo of him and Chris on the dock inside his shirt pocket.  _ Chris. Chris. Chris. _

Nobody got very much done for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Phil had never heard it so quiet in the ER; he was infinitely grateful to the Trauma Gods for leaving them alone, because as much faith as he had in his colleagues, he didn’t know that any of them had the mental and emotional capital to spend on a life-or-death matter at that moment. What few cases were coming in were comparatively minor, and they were treated quietly, with only the persistent reporting of the Federation Media Alliance playing from the nurses’ station for background noise.

Lunch came and went. Nobody was hungry. Phil checked his comm. Nothing.

_ Chris. Chris. Chris. _

_ “Attention, all officers.” _

That phrase in that solemn cadence was really starting to get to Phil.

_ “Starfleet Command and the United Federation of Planets must make a tragic announcement. Ten of our starships were dispatched in response to this morning’s distress call at 0903 hours. We have just received confirmation that nine of those ten starships have been destroyed.” _

Phil felt a cold sweat prickle over his body. He retched unproductively, one hand over his mouth and one hand gripping the arm of his chair. There were cries of anguish and suffocated sobs all around him, but he barely heard them over the  _ Chris, Chris, Chris  _ in his mind.

_ “The lone ship still detectable on sensors is the USS Enterprise.” _

Phil fell out of his chair, his knees smacking hard onto the cool linoleum floor, and let out a couple of hysterical sobs of relief. He was not a remotely religious man, but he immediately began thanking every deity from every culture he’d ever encountered in his entire career, overflowing with gratitude for whoever or whatever intervened to keep Chris’ ship safe, and desperate,  _ desperate  _ to hold Chris in his arms again, right this second.  _ Come home, love. Come on home now and we’re gonna take that sick day we talked about this morning because I’m not going to let you go this time. _

_ “Our lists of MIA and KIA personnel are incomplete, as the Enterprise remains out of comm range and we do not yet know if personnel were transported to Vulcan’s surface, to escape pods, or to the Enterprise prior to their home ship’s destruction. Please stand by for further developments. In the meantime, please keep the personnel of the Antares, Armstrong, Farragut, Hood, Mayflower, Newton, Odyssey, Truman, and Wolcott, and their loved ones, in your thoughts.” _

Phil listened to the litany of lost vessels and felt sick. Nine ships. Nine  _ entire  _ ships, full to the brim with Starfleet officers, gone. An entire  _ planet,  _ with a history far older and arguably richer than Earth’s, gone.  _ How many people just died?  _ he thought.  _ How many billions of people? And why and how and what is happening? _

_ And what kind of person am I to be so, so grateful that my one of those billions is on an intact ship right now? _

Moments like these really put a microscope on people’s values, on their ultimate concerns and what was most precious to them. For Phil, who had always let his values be his compass, it was a tricky set of circumstances to hear of senseless death and destruction on such a massive scale and respond with  _ relief.  _ It was wholly incongruous with his worldview, and it made him question things a little bit.

_ You are allowed to be human. _

From under a thick fog of distraught voices around him and his own thundering heartbeat and racing thoughts, he heard a nurse’s voice on the opposite side of the hall.

“What the hell is  _ that?!” _

Phil stood on shaky legs and made his way over to the transparent double doors that separated triage from the outside courtyard. In the distance, a massive, brilliant column of -  _ is that fire?  _ \- was streaking down from the sky, plunging straight into the water of the San Francisco Bay. Under his feet, the ground trembled, somewhat like an earthquake but not quite - it was steadier, less jerky and unpredictable, and humming at a lower, more ominous frequency. Phil could see red-clad cadets on the Academy grounds, closer to the center of the action, racing in any direction that led them away from the Bay.

“What the hell  _ is _ that?!” Phil echoed, pressing through the nurses and techs and patients in front of him, trying to get to the doors.

“Phil,” Dr. Ahluwalia said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

Phil didn’t take his eyes off the scene in front of him. “There are people who are gonna need help, Prisha.”

“And I would rather you not be one of them,” she added gently. “Rescue and recovery  _ follow  _ attack. We need to wait.”

_ No. No more death today. Please. _

Then, as quickly as it began, the column of fire fizzled out of existence. Something immense and metallic spiraled down, down, down, just barely missing the Golden Gate, and splashed into the waters of the Bay.

A tall phlebotomist Phil knew only in passing turned to the rest of the group crowded around the doors. “Anybody have any idea what the fuck we just saw?”

In a day chock full of blank, confused stares, Phil found himself once again surrounded by blank, confused stares.

~

When the active chaos of the day died down but the shock and trauma and grieving and continual wondering of  _ is it over?  _ remained, Phil felt his comm buzz in his pocket. Several messages, all in a row, none of which he’d felt or heard come in.

From Mom:  _ “Jesus, sweetheart, we just saw what happened. Please tell me you and Chris are okay. Love you.” _

From Erin:  _ “What the fuck is going on over there? Be safe. I can’t deal with one of you getting hurt.” _

From Rasheed Puri, of all people:  _ “Hey Phil, long time no talk. Wanted to tell you I’m going up with Enterprise for this run since you’re in the OR. Don’t worry - I won’t steal your CMO spot or your man! Have a good one.” _

And there, down at the bottom, from Chris:  _ “I already miss you.” _

“Oh, Chrissy,” Phil whispered, clinging to that little message like a life preserver, a little beacon that told him that, no matter what, even if the Enterprise was coming apart at the seams, Chris was well enough to send him that sweet little message.

_ He’s okay. He’s okay. Chris is okay. Everything’s okay. _

Swallowing thickly, he returned his parents’ call.

~

A few days passed. An all-‘Fleet message had been sent out saying that the Enterprise was still on sensors, but her propulsion and comm systems had taken heavy damage; they needed a tow with another warp-capable ship, and bless her fucking heart, Laura Zoss had immediately volunteered the Lovell to go out at maximum warp and bring Enterprise home.

Phil didn’t sleep well. For a man who’d slept most of his life without Chris in arm’s reach, it was uncommonly difficult to sleep without him now. He would lie in bed, read that little comm that reminded him Chris was in an okay state -  _ “I already miss you” -  _ and fall into a fitful sleep, waking an hour or so later to the sudden realization that he was alone in his bed.

During one such fitful sleep, his terminal woke him.

_ “Incoming video communication: Caller unknown.” _

Had it not been for the exceptional circumstances of the past week, Phil would’ve ignored it. In light of recent events, though, he stumbled out to the terminal he’d left on his kitchen table and punched up the feed.

Leonard McCoy stared grimly back at him.

“Len?”

“Phil.” That was weird. Even though they were pretty good friends now, Len was enough of a  _ no-sir-yes-ma’am  _ southern gentleman to continue to call Phil  _ Dr. Boyce,  _ even when granted explicit permission to call him  _ Phil.  _ “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize what time it was.”

“It’s all right.” Phil sat, scrubbing his face with one hand and trying to wake up. “What’s going on? Where’s Rasheed?”

Len closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “We lost Dr. Puri in the initial assault.”

Phil clapped a hand over his mouth. He and Rasheed were more acquaintances than friends, but Phil had always liked him, a bright, funny endocrinologist who gave the best student lectures by far in their entire graduating class. Phil should’ve told him that. Phil should’ve made more of an effort to stay in touch with him.

Phil shook his head dazedly. “That makes you…”

“Acting CMO, yes,” Len sighed. “Phil, it’s Captain Pike.”

Phil’s heart stuttered. “Chris?”

“He’s alive.”

No doctor ever started a good sentence with the words  _ he’s alive,  _ even if that was, by itself, good news. “But?”

Len winced hard. “Phil, he was captured by the Romulans. They held him hostage for seventeen hours.”

There it was. That memory of falling through the ice again, of all his blood turning to slush. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Len admitted. “Centaurian slug.”

Phil’s instant flashback to fourth-year xenoparasitology was vivid and horrifying.

_ “Don’t worry, all; this little bugger’s already dead,” said Dr. Washington. “And even if it wasn’t, their exoskeletons by themselves aren’t gonna hurt you. Still wouldn’t recommend giving one a great big hug, though.” _

_ “Yeah, I’m not super inclined to do that anyway,” one of Phil’s peers said. _

_ Another braver one stepped closer, crouching down. “Kinda looks like a scorpion.” _

_ “I was gonna say a Ceti eel,” Rasheed said. _

_ “Actually, you’re both right,” Dr. Washington said. “We think there might be an evolutionary link between Centaurian slugs and Ceti eels, though it hasn’t been proven yet. And I think they look a lot like scorpions, too, though I think scorpions are usually a little kinder to the folks they sting.” _

_ “I don’t see a stinger, though,” Phil said critically. “How do they cause harm?” _

_ “Passive toxicity,” Dr. Washington said. “Their waste is incredibly caustic, and it destroys almost all humanoid tissues - blood, nerves, skin, muscle, organs. You could have one crawling around on you without a problem, as long as it didn’t pee or poop or vomit or give birth. They don’t seem to like damaging bones all that much, and Bolians seem immune to their effects, but for most of us…” _

_ Dr. Washington let the sentence go unfinished. Everyone could fill in the disgusting, horrifying blanks. _

“I...excuse me.” Phil felt all the blood drain from his face, stumbled to the bathroom, and threw up.

_ blood nerves skin muscle organs blood nerves skin muscle organs bloodnervesskinmuscleorgans _

“Sorry,” Phil mumbled when he came back to the terminal.

Len just nodded. “I get it.”

Phil appreciated the verbiage. He didn’t say  _ it’s all right  _ because no this most certainly was  _ not  _ the fuck all right, and he didn’t say  _ don’t worry about it  _ because worry was absolutely called for. But he  _ did  _ get it. “What’s his status? Don’t mince words.”

Len sighed again. “Well, once we got him back, I took him straight to the OR. He was oriented enough to tell me what happened, but not especially lucid. I pulled the primary slug from the cecum, repaired the vascular damage, and gave him two units. Cleared all the larvae we could see from his CNS and did a neural graft to patch the damage to his brainstem. His kidneys are trashed; I put him on continuous hemofiltration, but I think a little too late. He’s already got signs of rhabdo.”

_ Oh, god, sweetheart.  _ Phil felt a tear run down his cheek.

_ Love that boy for all he’s worth. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. _

“I think the outlook looks promising, Phil, for retained cognitive function, reestablishment of renal function, and long-term survival. I can’t be more specific about neuro right now, though. There’s so much goddamn inflammation in there. I put him on immuchloraprine and hallotragine to try to knock it down, but I don’t have the resources on the Enterprise to do anything else right now. Once we get home, I’ll get him back to the OR and get a more conclusive answer.”

_ I need to hold him. I need to hold him right now and I can’t and this is awful.  _ “He’s still out, I presume?”

“Oh yes. And staying that way.”

“What about infection?”

“That is literally the only way in which he’s gotten lucky. Cultures are negative. He’s mildly febrile, but it’s an inflammatory response, I’m sure.”

“How far out are you?”

“The Lovell showed up yesterday to tow us home,” Len replied. “Probably about three days.”

Phil needed, but did not necessarily want, to ask the next question. “Can you keep him going for three days?”

Len made rock solid eye contact, not blinking, not wavering. “Yes, I can.” He tilted his head a little in sympathy. “Phil, you know I won’t make a promise I don’t know I can keep.”

“I know,” Phil whispered.

Len nodded back.  _ “I promise  _ I’m gonna do everything I can for him. All right?”

Phil nodded shakily and tried to keep from outright sobbing. “Thank you, Len.” He took a few moments to compose himself as best he could, wiping his eyes. “Spock’s in command?”

Len snorted and rolled his eyes a little. “Not as such, no. Jim is.”

Phil frowned incredulously. “Wait,  _ what?” _

Len shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

Phil looked forward to hearing it, later, once Chris was here and whole and safe. “He commed me,” he murmured. “Chris did. Before you left. Asked me to smack Jim for him.”

Len raked a hand through his hair. “With all due respect, sir, you and Captain Pike alike can get the hell in line on that front.”

When Len closed the comm with a solemn promise to be in touch with any change in Chris’ status -  _ if his BP changes by more than ten points, I’ll comm you  _ \- and in twelve hours at the latest, Phil buried his head in his hands and sobbed the sobs he’d tried to suffocate moments ago. He rubbed furiously at his eyes, forgetting that he was wearing an old shirt of Chris’ to bed, smelling that perfect  _ coffee sugar citrus shampoo  _ on the sleeve, and had to make a mad dash to the bathroom to throw up again.

~

Phil didn’t sleep for three days. This time, he was sure of it. His brain did not drift off for minutes at a time that counted as sleep in a technical sense. He knew he didn’t sleep because he was hyperconscious of time, of every minute that ticked by inexorably slowly, of every remaining hour that separated him from Chris and Chris from the medical care he desperately needed.

He’d never requested a formal leave of absence in his entire career, but the morning he learned of Chris’ status, he walked into Dr. April’s office looking profoundly haggard and handed it over. She signed off on it without a word, came around her desk, and hugged him. “When Bob got sick,” she said quietly, “I came back too quickly. The kids told me not to, but I did it anyway. Don’t make the same mistake, Phil.”

Phil nodded into her shoulder. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You need more leave, you call me. I’ll authorize it.”

“Okay.”

She separated from him and cupped his cheeks. “There will be time for you to fall apart later. I promise.”

Phil didn’t know quite why that was such a comforting thing to hear, but it was. “Thank you.”

He called his parents. His mother sobbed. Not the little weepy sniffles she let go when Chris and Phil got together, not the somber tears of a funeral, but wrenching sobs that Phil felt in his gut. She begged Phil to let them come out and help him, and Chris too; but Phil told them to stay home, at least for now. “If he... _ makes  _ it,” he said thickly, “he’s not going to leave the hospital for a long time. Save your money and come out later, once he’s home.”

Erin wept, too, but in that very Erin way of hers, where she looked angry and annoyed by her tears.  _ “Captains,”  _ she scoffed over the vid comm.  _ “Fucking yeehaw unto the breach bullshit. Couldn’t do a couple tours in the ‘Fleet and then retire and become that nerdy social studies professor we know he would be, no; he’s gotta be the goddamn hero, the sacrificial fucking lion.” _

“That’s Chris,” Phil husked. “After his crew, after his family, after the greater good, he’s always his own last thought.”

~

_ “Trauma bay four, stand by for transport.” _

Phil stood, because he couldn’t sit. He clenched his hands in front of him, because they wouldn’t stay in his pockets. He took shaky breaths, because his heart was quivering in his throat and he couldn’t breathe around them without the percussion of his heartbeat.

The immense field of people shimmering into rematerialized being in front of him was almost bright enough that he had to squint. Len was on one side of the gurney, with Martha’s daughter Christine next to him - Phil would have been pleasantly surprised, had he possessed the capacity for either emotion right then - and Geoff M’Benga flanked the other side. Between them, too damn pale and too damn still and too damn beautiful, lay Chris.

_ Love. No matter what. Love. No matter what. Love. No matter what. _

“ - an OR, stat; get anesthesia down here, and I want someone from med genetics in room for stem cell harvesting,” Len was calling to his staff. “Phil, I’m gonna take him back in; d’you wanna scrub in?”

Phil didn’t take his eyes off Chris, but shook his head.  _ No. No. Can’t see him like that. No. _

Len nodded wordlessly, then turned back to the room. “All right, everyone clear the room for a minute.”

A scrub tech in the corner frowned in confusion. “Sir?”

“Is the patient’s condition likely to change in the next sixty seconds?” Len snapped. “It is not. Vacate the room. We’ll reconvene in - which OR, Chapel?”

“One,” Christine answered.

“OR-1.” He looked around. “What’re you all standin’ around for? Free minute on the clock. Go.”

The room slowly emptied out, and Len turned back to Phil. “I can’t wait long; I’m sorry. I’ll come get you when we’ve gotta go.”

Phil nodded numbly, and Len slipped out of the room, leaving Phil in there with Chris’ unconscious form.

Slowly, Phil’s fingers found Chris’, and Phil entangled them, squeezing gently so as not to disturb Chris’ IV site. “Told you we should’ve stayed in bed,” he murmured, before bending down and kissing Chris’ face, over and over and over again - his lips, his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, the apples of his cheeks, every part of him that Phil had memorized so long ago and loved for just as long. Chris didn’t smell like himself, all antiseptic and sterile and medical - but  _ there, _ in that one spot, if Phil breathed deeply enough, there was just that whisper of  _ Chris  _ that proved that it was really him, that he was still in there, even if buried down deep.

“When we get you through this,” he whispered, “when you’re back with me, healthy and safe again, you and I are going to have a  _ very, very serious conversation  _ about this self-sacrificial cowboy bullshit of yours. You hear me, Christopher?” Phil ran a hand through his hair, the unwashed strands feeling tacky on his fingertips. “You have one job right now, and that is to survive. That’s  _ it, _ Chris. That’s your task right now.  _ Live.  _ Everything else -  _ anything  _ else - we’ll deal with it. Just survive. Just live.” The tears were building up faster than Phil could push them back down, and he finally conceded defeat to them. “I waited thirty years for you to let me love you like I do, Chris; don’t you  _ dare  _ take it away after seven months.”

“Phil?” Len’s voice was gentle and apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I gotta take him in now.”

Phil nodded without looking up from Chris’ face. He placed one last, long kiss on Chris’ hairline. “I love you, Christopher Vincent,” he pressed into his skin. “You sweet disaster. You brave man. You good, dear soul.”

_ You’re in love with Christopher Pike, and come what may, you will be until you draw your last breath. _

“I’ll come talk to you as soon as I can,” Len said solemnly. “Phil. Remember my promise? It still stands.”

Two orderlies came in and began wheeling the most precious of cargo down to OR-1, and Phil felt very much like they took his heart with them.

“Phil?”

He turned toward the voice. Her hair had started to grey a little in the few years since he’d last seen her, and she might’ve been a little bit thinner, though it was hard to tell. But she still had those big, bold brown eyes, that steady contralto voice, and that dark pageboy bobbing around her shoulders.

_ “There will be time for you to fall apart later,”  _ Dr. April had told him. And when Laura Zoss held her arms out for Phil, the moment for him to fall apart finally arrived in a cascade of heaving, frightened sobs.


	25. Chapter 25

In the family waiting room, Phil sat with his head on Laura’s shoulder and Jim’s head on his, staring into space, counting seconds as they became minutes as they became hours without word on Chris’ condition.

“Whoever authorized a clock with a  _ ticking second hand _ in this room ought to be shot,” Jim muttered viciously, glaring at the offending object.

Laura calmly stood up, pulled the clock off the wall, and removed the battery pack from the back. “Or we could just turn it off.”

Jim shrugged. “Different management strategies.”

Phil just continued to stare at the wall ahead of him, one hand on his comm, waiting for some word from OR-1. Periodically, he’d flip it open and read that text again -  _ I already miss you -  _ and wonder how,  _ how,  _ Chris could’ve possibly sent it. Something didn’t add up here.

_ Bzzt-bzzt.  _ Phil’s comm vibrated with a new message.

_ He’s stable intraop. Graft looks OK. Myelin damage significant. _

“What is it?” Laura asked.

Phil let out a long breath. “It’s about what we thought.” He swallowed. “He’s stable, though.”

Jim put a hand on Phil’s arm, not raising his head from his shoulder. “Well, stable’s about the best we can ask for right now, I guess.”

Unfortunately, he had a point. Phil flipped back to Chris’ message from days ago. “Jim,” he asked lowly, “when...when he got back from his...what did he do? What did he say?”

Jim shook his head. “I don’t think it’d help you to know,” he said delicately.

That verbiage told him plenty. “How’d he send me a message?”

Jim frowned deeply. “What? When?”

Phil showed him the message. “It came in after that...that...whatever it was was dropped into the Bay.”

Jim took Phil’s comm, looking critically at the text, then looking up to Phil in sympathy. “Phil, look at the timestamp.”

_ 2258.42, 1003 hours. _

An hour after he’d shipped out.

When all ten of the ships dispatched to Vulcan’s aid were still intact. When Vulcan itself was still intact. Before.  _ Long _ before.

“There was a lot of subspace interference from the Romulan weapon and all the debris,” Jim said gently. “It probably caused a delay. When we got him back, he didn’t even have his comm on him anymore.”

Phil felt sick.

~

Chris’ surgery took a total of four hours, seven minutes, and nineteen seconds. Phil was counting. When Len walked into the room, in fresh scrubs and smelling of antiseptic, he looked dangerously exhausted.

“All right, let’s do good news first,” he said, sinking into a chair across from the trio. “He started stable, stayed stable, and finished stable. I sent him to ICU instead of PACU, but that’s me bein’ cautious. The brainstem graft I did on the Enterprise looks great. Kidneys are...well, they’re still shitty, but no worse. We’re getting there.”

Phil nodded. “Myelin,” he rasped.

Len let out a sigh. “Myelin,” he echoed. He scrubbed his hand over his face, as if steeling himself for the conversation. “T-11 on down is almost completely demyelinated.”

Phil put his head in his hands.

“Spinal nerves got it a little less dramatically than the cord itself, but still not great. He’s got some little patches in the higher thoracic vertebrae where there’s partial demyelination, but nothing nearly so dramatic.”

_ Chris might never walk again. Chris might never captain a starship again. Chris might be in pain for the rest of his life. _

_ Love. No matter what. Love. No matter what. Love. No matter what. _

“I nabbed some more of his stem cells, and I’m gonna start working on myelin regeneration as soon as we’re done talking, but you know that’s gonna take a while. I’m confident I can repair pretty much all of the minor damage, but his cord…” Len shook his head and sighed. “A lot of it, Phil, but I can’t say I know how much.”

Phil closed his eyes and nodded. As bad news went, this was about the best - at least, in light of how bad things  _ could’ve  _ been. But it was still really, really bad.

“Phil,” Len said softly. “You remember my promise? It still stands.”

Phil nodded again. “I know. Thank you, Len.” He looked up to Len, trying to keep eye contact. “I’m glad he’s got you.”

The corner of Len’s mouth quirked up. “I was gonna say the same to you.”

To Phil’s left, Jim was looking at Len with that  _ look,  _ that same one Chris wore sometimes when he looked at Phil, the one that said  _ please fix this.  _ To his right, Laura looked away, trying to discreetly wipe a tear off her cheek.

“Can I see him?” Phil whispered.

“Course. C’mon.”

~

With Chris’ hand in his, the steady  _ beep-beep-beep  _ of his heart rate from the biobed, and the sounds of even, spontaneous breaths to his right, Phil slept. The hard plastic chair was murder on his neck and back, but to complain about that seemed unimaginably petty when cast against the backdrop of everything that had transpired of late. There was a couch in the room, but it was too far away to maintain a hold of Chris’ hand. Jim often slept on it, unless Len was off call and he and Jim could sleep at the same time.

Laura had been ordered back up into the black, and no amount of hell-raising on her part could change HQ’s mind, so she reluctantly left the day after Chris’ surgery, dropping a kiss on his forehead before she departed. “I love you, you stubborn ass,” she murmured.

Chris stayed silent. “He loves you too, Laura,” Phil whispered.

She hugged Phil as tightly as she could, visibly trying not to succumb to tears again. “I love  _ you, _ Philip. I hate not being able to do more.”

Phil shook his head. “You got him home,” he said into her shoulder. “You got him back to Earth. You helped to save his life.” He looked at her, holding both her hands.  _ “Thank you,  _ Laura.”

Laura put a soft hand on his cheek. “Keep me in the loop,” she implored. “As often as you’re able. And promise me you’ll take care of yourself, too. I know you’re gonna give him everything you’ve got, but please don’t forget what you need, too.”

_ What I need is Chris. Healthy, safe, alive Chris.  _ “I won’t.”

She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you soon.” And she was gone.

Eventually, Len brought in a cot for Phil to sleep on, lugging it into Chris’ room just past midnight. “I got enough to worry about without you killin’ your back,” he grumbled mildly.

Phil smiled gratefully. “Who’d you bribe to get this?” Cots were typically only arranged for a patient’s legal spouse, or for a minor patient’s parent.

“The less you know, the less you gotta be deposed about later,” Len answered.

“I appreciate it.”

Len shrugged widely. “I just thought...well. If it was Jim in here…”

Phil looked back to Chris’ too-still frame and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Phil started to commit to memory the rhythm and the timbre of Chris’ vital signs, how his breaths in were just a little quicker than his breaths out, how the  _ beep-beep-beep  _ of his heart rate harmonized with the low whirring of his hemofiltration machine. He combed the tangles out of Chris’ overlong hair, first with his fingers and then with a comb brought in by Jim, one of the few things he could do in an otherwise impotent waiting game.

On the third night, Chris stirred. It was barely there, just a flit of his eyes under his eyelids and a little puff of air through mostly-closed lips. Phil thought the little  _ “pffff…”  _ might’ve been an attempt at his own name. It was hard not to keep the narcissism or hope or whatever it was in check.

“Chrissy?” he whispered. “Chris? Love?”

But Chris settled back down, and his vital signs didn’t budge in the direction of him regaining consciousness.

“Is he okay?” Jim asked sleepily from the couch on the other side of the room.

Phil put his fingers back in Chris’ hair, stroking gently. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, Jim. No change.”

Jim got up from the couch and put his hand on Phil’s back. “I can’t claim to understand exactly what this is like for you,” he admitted, “but I know it’s got to be hell. It’s hell for  _ me,  _ and I’m just…” He waved his hand aimlessly. “Whatever I am to him.”

“His,” Phil supplied. “You’re  _ his, _ Jim. You know what you are to each other. You’re just too damn stubborn to say it out loud. Both of you.”

Jim pursed his lips. “Yeah.”

“Don’t wait to say it to him,” Phil said. He could feel a breakthrough wave of fear and exhaustion and love starting to break through his defenses. “Because...because I’ve loved him for more than half my life, Jim...and you just...you never know when something like  _ this  _ might...might…”

The words tangled up in a terrified knot in Phil’s throat and he couldn’t continue. He pressed his forehead to Chris’ sternum and wept, Jim rubbing his back in soothing circles all the while.

~

_ “Mmrph.” _

Phil’s eyes flew open. Chris was wincing.  _ He’s coming to. _

“Chris?” he said, moving from his cot to Chris’ bedside, a PADD clattering to the floor from his lap. “Chris?”

“Whazzat?” Jim mumbled, lifting his head from the couch.

Phil wrapped the fingers of both his hands around Chris’. “C’mon, Chris. C’mon. You’re waking up. You’re okay.” He kissed Chris’ fingers. “C’mon, love, open your eyes back up. Come on back.” He stood quickly, smacking the comm panel with more force than was necessary. “It’s Boyce. Get McCoy.  _ Now.”  _

Jim had stood up now and moved to the other side of the bed. “Chris?”

Phil put a hand on Chris’ cheek. “Come back to me, baby. C’mon. It’s okay. Come back.”

Chris’ eyes fluttered open, unfixed and unseeing, darting this way and that, before they gravitated toward Phil and  _ held. _

Phil sucked in a breath. “Hey, stranger.”

Chris held Phil’s eyes for a moment before slipping back to Jim, then to Len as he skirted into the room, then back to Phil. He opened his mouth a few times, trying to get his tongue to move. “Phil?”

Phil nodded, squeezing Chris’ hand. “I’m here, Chrissy.”

“How you feelin’, Captain?” Len asked.

Chris looked around, disoriented and confused. “Foggy. Dry. Little queasy. Can I have some water?”

“Not so fast. Ice chips to start. Jim, could you…?”

Chris winced again, like he was trying to assemble the puzzle pieces. “What happened to me?”

“Let me check a couple facts and figures first, and then we’ll go over it, okay?” Len said gently, punching up an updated blood chemistry on the biobed readout.

Chris put a spoonful of ice chips in his mouth and let them melt. “How’s the Enterprise?” he asked Jim.

“She’s a little banged up, but she’ll be fine. Just needs a new warp core and she’ll be ready to go back out.”

Chris paused, giving Jim a Look. “What happened to her  _ old  _ warp core?”

Jim futzed with the hem of his shirt. “I may have authorized its jettison and detonation in order to prevent us from being sucked into a black hole.”

Chris stared at Jim for a beat, then shook his head slightly and put his spoon back in his cup. “Of course you did.”

“How’s your sensation from waist down, Captain?” Len broke in.

“Shitty,” Chris answered bluntly. “Mostly numb. Some pins and needles.”

Len visibly suppressed a sigh and nodded.

“Can we go over what’s happened now?” Chris asked again. “I don’t even know what day it is. How long was I out?”

Phil felt Len and Jim look at each other, then at him, but he didn’t take his eyes off Chris. Len sat heavily in a chair next to Chris’ bed, and Jim next to him. “All right,” he said softly. “Since we got you off the Narada, it’s been ten days.”

_ “Ten days?!”  _ Chris burst.

“Eight of them on the Enterprise. We just got back to Earth day before yesterday.”

Chris blinked confusedly. “But - why - ”

“No warp drive,” Jim reminded him. “We limped part of the way on impulse, and the Lovell hauled ass to us and gave us a tow back home.”

Chris looked to Phil. “Number One?”

Phil smiled gently. “Yeah, love.”

Chris took a breath. “All right. What about me?”

“Now, listen, Captain, there’s a lot of information I gotta run through with you about your condition, and I don’t wanna overwhelm you. If you need me to stop, or go back and explain something, you tell me, all right?”

Chris nodded warily. Phil squeezed his hand again.

“All right. Well, you’ve had two surgeries so far, one on the Enterprise and one here. In the first one, I removed the primary slug from your intestines and repaired the trauma to that tissue, plus removed her babies from your spinal cord.” Chris paled and shuddered. “Yeah, that was my reaction, too. I also harvested some of your stem cells and created a neural patch that I grafted onto your brainstem to heal those injuries. That’s the main reason I kept you out as long as I did; I wanted to monitor the basic autonomic functions your brainstem mostly handles - breathing, heart rate, that kinda thing. The good news is, it seems to have taken without a problem. You’re not having any vision problems, are you? Blurriness, seeing stuff that isn’t there, any of that?”

Chris shook his head slowly. “No. It was a little fuzzy when I first came to, but it’s fine now.”

“Good, good. If you haven’t had complications from the graft yet, I doubt you will.”

Chris shifted his hand in Phil’s, interlocking their fingers for a more secure hold. “And the second surgery?”

“Exploratory,” Len said. “Those critters made your immune system go crazy; you were nothin’ but inflammation in there. I couldn’t get a good idea of the damage until it calmed down. I put you on two different broad-spectrum antibiotics, a systemic anti-inflammatory, and a high-dose immune modulator. I don’t know how you’ve gotten so damn lucky as to get away with not developing an infection, but you have, and I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth on that one.”

“What’d you find?” Chris asked. “In the second surgery, I mean?”

Len looked to Phil for a moment, then back to Chris. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Captain. It was pretty ugly in there. See, Centaurian slugs release a neurotoxin as a waste product, and that neurotoxin dissolves myelin - that’s the waxy stuff that covers your nerves, insulates them, helps with electrical conduction. In your case, the neurotoxin either profoundly weakened or completely stripped most of the myelin from the lower half of your spinal cord, and a fair few of your spinal nerves, up to about your eleventh thoracic vertebra.” Len shifted in his seat, putting his hand against his own flank as a marker. “That’s about there.”

“Yeah, that roughly corresponds to where the shitty feeling starts,” Chris said quietly.

“I’m not surprised,” Len replied. “Now, myelin can be regenerated from stem cells. I’m already working on it. But myelin regeneration…” He paused, combing his fingers through his hair. “It’s slow, it’s imperfect, and it’s  _ extremely  _ difficult. It’s gonna be a few months before we have enough myelin to really work with. Once we do, we’ll remyelinate as much as we can, but total remyelination is probably not possible.”

“You’re saying this is permanent?” Chris rasped.

“I’m saying we can improve it, but not cure it,” Len corrected. “Chances are, you’re gonna have some degree of neuropathy no matter how much we can get fixed. My goal is to make it as little as possible.”

Phil watched, heartbroken, as that beautiful light behind Chris’ eyes dimmed. “Am I gonna walk again?” he whispered.

_ Love. No matter what. _

“The odds are good, but it’s too soon for guarantees,” Len said carefully. “Not before the remyelination procedure, though.”

“What about physical therapy or something?”

“That’ll be a must  _ after _ we remyelinate, but not before.”

“Why not before?”

“That brings me to the next problem,” Len said on a sigh. “Your kidneys.”

“What about my kidneys?”

“When you came back to the Enterprise, you were in clinical shock. Your kidneys looked like shit, but that wasn’t a surprise, given the rest of the clinical picture we were looking at. I expected your renal function to improve as we got you stabilized and once we got those foreign bodies out of you.”

“But it didn’t,” Chris extrapolated.

“But it didn’t,” Len echoed. “The slug larvae didn’t just attack your nervous system; they entered your general circulation, and they landed in the largest storage compartment in your body: your muscles. Your kidneys were already tryin’ to get rid of the neurotoxin, which was a chore by itself, but add on to that the cocktail of drugs I had you on to keep you going and then the myoglobin from the muscle tissue they were chomping on, and it was too much for them to handle. They were overwhelmed and they got trashed. It’s called rhabdomyolysis.”

Speaking of overwhelmed, Chris looked very much so. “What do we do about that?”

“Fortunately, it’s treatable,” Len said encouragingly. “It’s a bitch, but it’s treatable. I’ve got you on continuous hemofiltration to take some of the load off your kidneys. You’ve been on it for six days and you’re not coming off it anytime soon, so get used to that thing.” He gestured to the IV in Chris’ hand. “But it’s not permanent. Assuming you stay stable, I think you can come off in another couple weeks.”

“Sorry, back up - what’s that got to do with why I can’t do physical therapy now?”

“Because your muscles are still healing,” Phil interjected gently. “Your kidneys are still fragile; if you overwork your muscles, you’ll spill more myoglobin into your system, and if you do, you’ll be back at square one. I know it sucks, but we’ve gotta wait.”

“You’ll get more use from PT with new myelin on board, anyway,” Len added.

Chris closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. “So,” he said, “I’ve got kidney, nerve,  _ and  _ muscle stuff going on. Anything else I need to know about?”

“That, fortunately, about covers it,” Len said, leaning back in his chair. “What questions do you have?”

Chris looked down at the blanket covering him, his voice shrinking. “Can I captain a starship again?”

Phil closed his eyes, trying to hide his heartbreak. Across from him, Len suppressed a sigh. “If I could give you a straight answer on that, Captain, I would,” he said gently. “We just don’t know yet.”

“We can hope,” Jim said roughly, because what else could you say in that situation?

“Chris,” Phil said softly, drawing Chris’ eyes up to meet his. “You’re  _ alive.” _

_ You did your duty. You did all you had to do. Whatever happens now, we work through it, you and me. _

Chris tightened his grip on Phil’s hand. He looked properly miserable, not that he didn’t have good reason.

Len looked to his partner. “Jim, you look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Let’s go to bed.”

Jim looked up at Chris. “You okay for tonight?”

Chris nodded. “I’m fine, son. Get some sleep for once in your life.”

Jim smiled softly. “Aye, sir.”

Once they’d departed, Phil and Chris were left alone in the room, with only the dull hum of Chris’ hemofiltration unit in the background. Chris looked up and tried to smile. “Hi.”

Phil put a hand on Chris’ cheek. “Hi there.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris blurted. “I’m sorry, Phil.”

Phil frowned, shook his head, and kissed Chris on the forehead. “No, love. No. Nothing to be sorry about.”

Chris choked wetly, and Phil stroked his hair, thumbing the tears off his cheeks. “You didn’t exactly sign up for all this,” Chris said, gesturing to his legs.

“I signed up for  _ you,”  _ Phil clarified. “All of you. Moods and flaws and hard times and all.” He smiled softly. “The ecstasies and the miseries, remember?”

Chris nodded. “I’m so  _ tired,  _ Phil.”

“Then sleep, Chrissy,” Phil murmured. “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Chris slept.

When Phil woke just a few short hours later, it was to the sound of Chris’ harsh, stuttered breathing. “Chris?” Phil looked up; the biobed readout wasn’t alarming with signs of hypoxia or tachycardia, so the physical concerns were minimal. “Chris, love, I’m turning on the light, okay?”

When he flicked on the light, Chris had a PADD on his chest, and he was  _ sobbing. _

“Oh, god, sweetheart,” Phil murmured. “What is it?”

Chris’ breath was hiccupy and stilted. “Can you - can you come here, please? Next to me?”

Phil knew damn well that a second person in a biobed was going to fuck with the readout, but he didn’t care. He lowered the railing on the side of Chris’ bed and crawled into the narrow space next to him, close enough to breathe his breath and sweat his sweat.  _ I’m on the wrong side of the bed. The left side is Chris’ side.  _ “Hey. Hey. Talk to me, Chrissy.”

Chris didn’t say anything; he just gestured to the PADD on his chest. Phil picked it up and looked at it.

Puri’s personnel file, pulled from the KIA list.

“He - he was on six,” Chris stammered. “There was a hull breach. He went to try - to try and save people. We got hit again, and…”

“Sweetheart,” Phil whispered, “why are you doing this to yourself?”

“It would’ve been  _ you,” _ Chris blurted. “You were always,  _ always _ gonna be my CMO, and if you hadn’t been in surgery that day, it would’ve been  _ you  _ on six trying to save people, and I couldn’t have survived that, Phil, I couldn’t survive losing you, and all I can think about is how much  _ time  _ I wasted where I could’ve been loving you and now I came so close to losing you and I  _ knew  _ that, I  _ knew  _ it when the frequencies came out of my mouth, I  _ knew  _ I had escaped losing you once and now I was gonna lose you again. I was in so much pain, and I was staring up at Earth on the screen, at that pretty blue marble, and I knew you were down here, you and your parents and your siblings and everyone, and I knew when I gave up those frequencies that I was gonna lose you,  _ again,  _ because of me - ”

“And you didn’t,” Phil finished. “You  _ didn’t _ lose me, Chris. And I didn’t lose  _ you.  _  You are  _ not responsible  _ for any of the things that happened up there.” He twined their fingers together and brought them up over Chris’ heart. “I’m here. I’ve got you, baby. You’re home, and you’re safe, and I’m here with you. We’ll get through this, you and me.”

As Chris tried to get his breathing back to normal, Phil looked back at the PADD, getting his first real look at the KIA list. It was a long, long list, and peppered throughout, standing out in stark relief, were the names of those he knew.

_ See, Martin. _

_ Oliver, Ezra. _

_ Hirono, Elisabeth. _

_ Ginsburg, Carl. _

_ Sfax, Orsythia. _

_ Mehl, Bethany. _

On and on and on.  _ May their memories be a blessing. _

Chris pressed his forehead to Phil’s, his shoulders quivering with sobs. “I love you, Phil.  _ I love you.  _ Please don’t let another day go by where I don’t tell you that.  _ I love you.” _

Phil squinted slightly. Outside Chris’ window, the sun was just barely rising above the Golden Gate. “I love you too, Chris. More than I could ever tell you.”

Chris fell into an uneasy sleep, and Phil stayed there by his side, exhausted but awake, arm around Chris’ waist. 


	26. Chapter 26

“It is fortunate that the Admiral has maintained a reasonably orderly living space,” Spock was saying in the front room. “I fear this task would be more challenging with certain other superior officers.”

“You can say  _ me, _ Spock, it’s okay,” Jim’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Indeed. For one who has viewed Admiral Pike as a mentor, I confess I find it baffling that you have not emulated any of his tidier habits.”

“Well, you’ve known him way longer than me, and you don’t seem to have picked up any of his easygoing-ness, either, so let’s call it even.”

_ “Easygoing-ness  _ is not a word - ”

_ “Lord have mercy on my everlovin’ soul,”  _ Len’s voice burst from the bathroom. “Phil and the Admiral don’t even bicker as much as y’all do, and they swap spit. Among other bodily fluids.”

Jim made a noise of disgust. From his eavesdropping spot in the bedroom, Phil just laughed.

“Jesus  _ Christ, _ Bones, don’t talk about them like  _ that;  _ they’re like my  _ parents.” _

Phil abandoned his attempt to fold the fitted sheet and sank onto Chris’ stripped bed, letting  _ that  _ statement sink into the tissues of his brain. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had that same thought many times over, but there was something different about hearing it verbalized. Unlike Chris, Phil had never had strong feelings for or against becoming a father one day; he couldn’t really see parenthood being a part of his life, but if it happened, he was open to it. He couldn’t say  _ this _ was how he’d ever pictured that happening, the accidental acquisition of a motley crew of surrogate children, but it also seemed...oddly appropriate.

He wondered what Chris’ reaction to hearing that would’ve been. Because for a man who spent so much of his life so breathlessly phobic of the idea of parenting a child, he certainly seemed to have put a claim on Jim as his own, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

Finishing with the sheet and sealing up the box of linens, Phil carried it into the living room, where nearly everything was packed up now - pictures off the walls, books off the shelves, Chris’ old guitar and telescope in their cases. The place looked strange so bare inside, even as Phil had been with Chris the day he’d signed his lease, when it was equally barren. Maybe it was just the absence of Chris that made it look empty in here. 

After nearly two months in the hospital, Chris was finally ready to go home, at least until his myelin had finished cooking and it was time for another surgery. But that lovely seventh-floor walkup he’d rented after his divorce was not the most accessible for a man dealing with mobility issues of questionable permanence, so once again, Chris was moving in with Phil. With definite permanence.

“I’m just glad we don’t have to try to haul the damn furniture out of here,” Len was saying as Phil came into the room. “I got enough to deal with right now; I don’t need my hands full of y’all’s back problems, too.”

“My reinforced musculature makes it unlikely that I would sustain injury due to - ” Spock cut himself off at Len’s look of  _ really? _

Jim sat on the arm of the sofa, right next to Phil. “Hey,” he said softly, under Len and Spock’s bickering. “You okay?”

Phil smiled sadly and nodded. “Yeah. I just…” He sighed. “This is where I was sitting, when he and I became...well,  _ us.” _

Jim nodded with understanding. “Ah. Yeah, that’s hard, letting go of something like that.” He paused, putting a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Gotta say, though - I think you’re getting the better end of the deal here. You get to keep  _ him.” _

Phil looked up to Jim and smiled. “How’d you get so wise?”

“Talking to your boyfriend,” Jim answered smoothly.

After they’d loaded up Phil’s and Len’s cars with Chris’ stuff, and once Phil had turned Chris’ keys in to his landlady, they returned to the hospital. “You ready to get out of here, sir?” Len asked as soon as he stepped into the room.

“Hell yes, I’m ready to get out of here,” Chris answered, leaning into the arm Phil put around him. “Afternoon, Spock.”

“Admiral,” Spock greeted, giving a nod. “I’m pleased that your recovery has advanced to this point.”

Chris still bristled at being called  _ Admiral,  _ technically correct though it was, but he also knew Spock hadn’t intended offense. “You and me both. Thanks for helping out today.”

Phil looked down to Chris and smiled. “Let’s go home.”

In his head, Phil kept moving the goalposts. After Chris was out of surgery -  _ the hard part’s done.  _ After he was awake -  _ the hard part’s done.  _ After he’d dealt with his promotion to Admiral, after he’d agreed to parenteral feeding so he didn’t starve while reacclimating to swallowing, after he’d figured out how to use a wheelchair, agreed to move in with Phil, started smiling again -  _ the hard part’s done.  _ He recognized that he was doing it and the coping strategy that no doubt supported it, but he also felt like he was always right. They were  _ all  _ the hard parts. Every hurdle they crossed was another little emblem of relief, a tiny victory.

They got Chris home, got his things out of the cars, and got him settled into bed. Len returned to the hospital to finish his shift, while Jim and Spock dashed away to a meeting, leaving Phil and Chris in genuine privacy for the first time since before the Narada.

“Hi,” Chris said softly.

“Hi,” Phil answered, flopping onto the bed next to him. “You’re cute.”

“Please,” Chris teased. “You’re already getting laid. C’mere.”

Phil scooted closer and sighed happily into Chris’ kiss. “Missed that.”

“That’s what got me through,” Chris said, stroking his hands all over Phil’s chest and back and shoulders. “Needed to get back so I could kiss you and hold you and touch you again. Needed to get back to you.”

“You did, baby,” Phil murmured. “You got back to me.”

Chris tugged him closer. “Wanna come the rest of the way back.”

Phil melted into another of Chris’ kisses, letting himself float away and his muscle memory trick him into thinking the past two months hadn’t happened, the Narada hadn’t happened, everything was fine and safe and they were still in bed that morning and Chris had relented and taken that sick day. But reality rudely intruded on the idyllic scene, reminding Phil that Chris was still in very poor shape; his kidneys were far better, but his muscles, his nerves, his  _ mind… _

He wasn’t ready for this.

Chris broke the kiss, looking down at his body with a frown of confusion and betrayal. “I...Phil…”

Phil put his hand on Chris’ cheek. “Chris - ”

Chris looked up at Phil, his eyes wide and shiny. “I...I can’t…”

“Sweetheart, listen to me,” Phil whispered. “I know you’re a hell of a lot better than you were right after it happened, but you’re still healing. It’s gonna take a while for your nerves to remember how to do what you want them to.” He stroked Chris’ hair. “I know. I know, it sucks. You just need some more time.”

Phil’s heart broke as furious  tears dripped out of Chris’ eyes, seemingly out of his control. “I’m so sorry, Phil. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” Phil said gently. “This is not your fault and you have  _ nothing  _ to apologize for, Chrissy.  _ Nothing.” _

“You...you deserve better than this...you deserve someone who can...who can give you…”

Phil kissed Chris’ forehead long and sweet. “I’ve got that someone already,” he whispered. “And I don’t want anybody else.”

~

Chris’ drop from appropriate grieving over his circumstances into legitimate depression was so subtle that Phil thought he might’ve missed if his internal barometer hadn’t been finely tuned for thirty years to notice subtle changes to the air when Chris walked into a room. It was all a matter of tone, of the shape of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders, of how open (or closed) to suggestion he was, of how and when he slept. One not fluent in Chris Pike could easily miss the signs until they were knee-deep in the trenches.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said one night with the lights off.

“Stop it.” This was becoming a recurrent, worrisome theme in Chris’ conversation.

“I don’t,” Chris persisted. “You’re...you’re  _ light,  _ Phil.  _ Light.  _ You’re all color and joy and transparency and openness and sharing and  _ good,  _ and for some reason, you got caught in my gravity well, and here we are. I don’t want to drag you down. You deserve better than my burden, Phil. You always have.”

The verbiage was horrifyingly familiar. “That’s what you think you are to me, don’t you? A burden?”

Chris was silent for a moment. “I sure  _ feel  _ like one.”

“Do  _ I  _ make you feel like you’re a burden?”

“No,” Chris was quick to answer. “No, of course you don’t.”

“Okay. So it’s coming from something in your mind, then. Which means you view  _ yourself  _ as a burden.”

Chris pulled the covers up to his chin. “Don’t psychoanalyze me at three a.m., Phil.”

Phil shook his head. “You know, I could dress this up in a million billion fancy words, but fuck it, I’ll be blunt. I want  _ you.” _ He cupped Chris’ face in his hands.  _ “I. Want. You.  _ You are not a burden. You have never been a burden. You are a choice, a choice I have made every day of my life since I met you. I wanted you blond, and I want you grey. I wanted you before the Narada, and I want you after. I wanted you when you were eighteen, and I want you at forty-eight, and I’m gonna want you at seventy-eight and a hundred and eight, too. I’ve seen you angry and sullen and hungry and exhausted and in pain and under pressure and selfish and worried and miserable and married to other people, and I haven’t jumped ship yet. I’m not going to now.”

Chris pressed his forehead into Phil’s. “I hate this,” he whispered. “I hate this for me, and I hate what I’m doing to you. I need to want to live.”

Phil’s heart froze. Those were  _ not _ the words of someone mentally healthy. “Chris,” he said lowly, “am I inconveniencing you by requesting your presence among the living?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” Chris mumbled. “I just mean…” He trailed off with a sigh.

“You mean you’re not okay?” Phil asked, already knowing the answer.

Chris nodded, swallowing tightly. “Yeah, I’m not okay.”

Phil wrapped an arm tightly around Chris’ waist, unable to stop himself, while he tried to calm that pleading impulse in his mind that screamed  _ stay with me, stay with me, help me make it okay for you to stay with me.  _ “You remember when Len put you on an IV feed, he suggested you see a therapist about your issues with that?” When Chris nodded, Phil continued. “I think we’ve got some even bigger issues now.”

Chris pursed his lips and sank deeper into Phil’s arms. “I don’t know how to do that,” he said. “How to talk to a stranger about all that. How to be honest about how bad it is.”

Phil thought for a moment. “What if I was with you the first time?” he offered. “Would that make it easier?”

Chris deflated like a balloon, all the tension leaving his muscles in waves of breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it would.”

“Len told me he knows of someone excellent. I’ll get the name tomorrow.” Phil brushed Chris’ hair out of his face. “Can you hold on with me until tomorrow?”

Chris nodded. “I can hold on.”

“Good,” Phil said.  _ Now I just have to hold on, too. _

~

“Dr. Boyce?” The young blond woman with striking grey eyes extended her hand. “Liz Dehner.”

Phil smiled and shook her hand. “Hi, Dr. Dehner. Thanks for coming by.”

“My pleasure. Dr. McCoy speaks so highly of you and Dr. Pike, I felt I’d do us all a disservice if I didn’t.” She turned around with a sly smile, as if expecting to see Phil’s raised eyebrows. “Yes, I’ve been warned. Don’t call Dr. Pike  _ Admiral,  _ and don’t call Dr. Boyce  _ Captain.” _

Phil laughed gently. “I like you already.”

Five minutes later, Phil had pulled a chair into the bedroom for Dr. Dehner, and had curled onto the bed next to a very uncomfortable looking Chris.

“So, how does this work, exactly?”

Dr. Dehner shrugged. “There’s no script. It works however you say it works.” When Chris stayed awkwardly silent, she gave a prompt. “What made you decide to ask for a session?”

“Phil,” Chris said lowly. For a moment, Phil couldn’t tell if that was a prompt for  _ him  _ to speak or an answer to Dr. Dehner’s question; then Chris continued and clarified it. “I, um...I’ve been struggling with getting over what happened to me, and...well. Phil deserves better than that.”

_ Oh, sweetheart, it’s you who deserves better than that,  _ Phil thought.

Dr. Dehner just nodded. “You say you’ve been struggling. How so? How does that manifest in your life?”

“Well, I can’t walk.”

“What else?”

Chris squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t sleep. Except when I sleep too much. I can’t eat solid foods without having a panic attack. I’m getting better, but I’m not there yet. I can’t... _ be with  _ Phil the way I want to.” He shrugged mildly. “I guess I’m depressed.”

“Hmm. Yeah, sure sounds that way.” Dr. Dehner paused, crossing her legs. “What can I do to help you? What do you want to get out of seeing me?”

Chris felt over and grabbed for Phil’s hand. “I don’t really know,” he answered. “I just want my old life back. But I know I can’t  _ get _ it back.”

“Fair point,” Dr. Dehner said, “but maybe we can try to get you  _ closer _ to the life you used to have. Does that sound doable?”

Chris nodded. “I guess so.”

She looked to Chris and Phil’s joined hands and smiled softly. “You’ve obviously got great support,” she observed. “Tell me how you guys met.”

Chris’ face broke into the first genuine, if exhausted, smile that Phil had seen him wear in a long, long while. “It was the day after my eighteenth birthday…”

~

Chris was napping in the late afternoon, and Phil took the opportunity to cook some meals to fill their freezer. Chris was finally able to eat some solids again without being viscerally revisited by the trauma of a toxic alien slug being forced down his throat, though there were still some understandable restrictions - no shrimp, for example, and nothing too crunchy or slimy - and Phil had been lax in preparing any food for himself while Chris had been on parenteral feeding. He prepared some easy things - pasta, chili, a stir fry with very finely chopped vegetables - and was in the middle of topping a pizza to put in the oven when the door chimed.

_ Shit, I hope that didn’t wake him.  _

The woman at the door was tall, attractive, and utterly unfamiliar. “Can I help you?”

“Captain Boyce? I’m sorry -  _ Doctor  _ Boyce?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Victoria Nelson. I’m with the Bay Area Chronicle, and - ”

_ Oh, dammit.  _ Phil put on his  _ gentle-but-firm  _ voice. “I’m sorry, Ms. Nelson; we’re not doing interviews with the press. If you want to contact the Starfleet Media Relations division, I can - ”

“I’m not here for an interview,” she interrupted. “I’m not here to get anything from you or Admiral Pike.”

Phil frowned. “Then, forgive my bluntness, but why  _ are _ you here?”

She shifted, looking very uncomfortable. “To right a wrong,” she said quietly. “May we speak for just a moment?”

_ Huh. I’m intrigued.  _ Phil grabbed his communicator, just in case Chris woke up and needed him, and walked out onto the porch, sitting next to her on the porch swing. “All right.”

She shifted again, playing with the strap of her shoulder bag and not making eye contact with Phil. “As I said, I’m with the Bay Area Chronicle. I’m a photographer. After Vulcan was destroyed, after the Battle of Earth - ”  _ is that what they’re calling it?  _ Phil thought to himself, “ - my editor assigned me to seek out shots that really captured all the qualities of Starfleet officers, the qualities that saved all our lives.” She shrugged slightly. “So I did.”

“I remember that spread,” Phil said, recalling the paper in question. “It was very good.”

“Thank you.” She took a long breath. “You remember the cover? Kirk and Spock and the senior staff of the Enterprise disembarking from the shuttle?”

“I do.”

Victoria just nodded. “My editor thought that was the best image to represent all the values that we respect in Starfleet - the courage, the resilience, the sacrifice.”

Phil nodded slowly. “It was a good choice.”

“It wasn’t the best,” Victoria blurted. “It was a decent photograph, sure, but it wasn’t right for the job.”

Phil shook his head. “I’m confused.”

She swallowed audibly. “Dr. Boyce, you must understand, I come from a school of journalism that demands that I take risks. I have always been told to do whatever I can, whatever I have to do, in order to get my story, my shot. I know some other journalists think that’s an ethical quagmire, but I’ve always done it that way, and I’ve never had a problem with it. But this time…” She sighed. “I did what I had to do to get my shot, but when I developed it, for the first time in my whole career, I couldn’t use it. I couldn’t bear to see it commercialized.”

Phil was even more confused now, and he was about to ask for more clarification when Victoria reached into her bag and pulled out a crisp printed photograph, which she wordlessly handed to Phil.

Phil gasped. “Oh my god.”

Chris, asleep in his hospital bed, hair long and dull, hemofiltration machine whirring. Phil, awake, wedged next to him on the biobed, in old jeans and a sweatshirt two sizes too big because it used to be Chris’. Phil holding Chris’ hand, the rays of the sunrise filtering in lazy and watery through the polarized windows, landing right on their joined hands, like a benediction from the season.

_ “That  _ is courage,” Victoria said.  _ “That  _ is resilience.  _ That  _ is sacrifice.” She sniffled slightly. “When I got the shot, I remember thinking,  _ this is it, this tells the story.  _ But when I developed it...I just couldn’t. It was too private. Too sacred. So I held on to it, didn’t tell my editor about it, and now I’m giving it to you.” She reached back into her bag, pulling out a data chip. “That hard copy in your hands and this data chip are the only existing copies of that photo, and I’m giving them to you and Admiral Pike. I’ve erased every other copy. Penance, for invading your privacy, for letting my zeal intrude on this precious and private moment.”

Phil shook his head, heedless of the tears falling down his cheeks. “It’s all right,” he whispered, finally breaking his long gaze at the picture to look back at her. “Thank you for this.”

She smiled sadly. “I know I told you I didn’t want anything from you, but I’m hoping I can have your forgiveness.”

_ When someone offers you honest contrition for a wrong, be gracious and accept it. _

“You just gave me a gift that proves that he and I can survive this,” Phil said hoarsely. “Not only do I forgive you, but I’m  _ grateful.” _

Victoria was silent for a moment. “It took me a while to process what I saw in that picture,” she admitted. “I haven’t rolled the luckiest dice in that area of my life. I’d kind of started to believe that that kind of devotion didn’t exist.” She shrugged. “It obviously does. I think it’s just astonishingly rare. I’m very glad you have each other, Dr. Boyce.”

Phil ran his finger down Chris’ sleeping face in the picture and saw all the thousands of things that had to coalesce for this to work out as it did. “I am too.”

~

In his head, Phil had had a perfect, beautiful vision of what his and Chris’ first anniversary as a couple would look like. They’d take the whole day off, sleep late, and go to that little restaurant in Sausalito that they loved but that was far too expensive to eat at on the regular. Phil wanted to get Chris some kind of anniversary gift, but he hadn’t decided what yet - probably a trip somewhere, like skiing in Vail or watching the sunset in Santorini. But of course, those were all plans made Before. There would be no Sausalito or Vail or Santorini.

_ At least, not this year,  _ the optimistic part of Phil’s brain chimed in.  _ You have a lifetime for that. _

_ Yes, but we only have one first anniversary,  _ the pessimist chimed in.

“As requested,” he said, knocking the bedroom door farther open with his hip, “four-cheese lasagna and non-alcoholic wannabe cab sauv.”

Chris smiled tiredly. “God, I love you.”

“For my lasagna?”

“Among other things,” Chris said, taking a bite. “God, the lasagna is way up there, though.”

Phil shook his head and sat next to Chris on the bed, propping himself up on pillows to match his height. “Knew you were only in it for the food.”

“You’re one to talk,” Chris teased with his mouth full. “You’re only in it for my body.”

That Chris could make a joke about that proved that his sessions with Dr. Dehner were doing  _ something,  _ however slowly. “Yeah, sorry about that, love. I have indeed been checking out your ass every time you’ve turned around. For thirty years. In flagrant violation of Starfleet policies against same.”

“Well, you’ve always been a rulebreaker.”

“Fair enough.”

Chris looked to Phil and smiled again. “Love you, Philip,” he said sincerely. “Not just for the lasagna.”

Phil thumbed a little smear of tomato sauce out of the corner of Chris’ mouth. “Love you, Chris,” he answered. “For everything. Forever.”

Dinner plates still on their laps, still sitting up in bed, the two of them fell asleep before nine o’clock that night, Phil with his head on Chris’ shoulder.

“Happy ann’ver’sry,” Chris mumbled.

“Love you,” Phil answered.

~

_ “McCoy to Boyce. Phil, are you up? Come in.” _

Phil came to with a start, Chris waking up a beat behind him, their plates clattering as they shifted on the bed. “I’m here, Len. What’s up?”

_ “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to tell you as soon as I confirmed it. The myelin’s ready. We can schedule the procedure anytime now.” _

Phil looked back to Chris, expecting a smile. Instead, Chris looked frozen and solemn with the gravity and uncertainty of it all.


	27. Chapter 27

One thing Phil still hadn’t gotten used to in the past six months was how  _ different  _ everything medical was from the  _ loved one _ perspective. He had worked at Starfleet Medical for decades; he knew where all of the floors squeaked and which lights flickered and which OR had that weird smell none of them could identify, but these rooms looked awfully different from the angle of a patient’s partner.

“How’re you feeling, sir?” Christine Chapel asked, walking into Chris’ pre-op room.

“Anxious,” Chris answered honestly. Phil squeezed his hand.

“I don’t blame you,” she said kindly, with a smile so like her mother’s it was eerie. “I’m getting ready to hang some prophylactic antibiotics for you - you want a little something to relax, too?”

“Oh, no,” Chris said on a sigh, squeezing the hell out of Phil’s hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“Chris,” Phil said lowly, “it’ll help.”

Chris looked to Phil and pursed his lips. “All right,” he whispered. “Maybe a  _ little  _ something.”

“You know he can’t have beta-lactams, right?” Phil said anxiously to Christine. “No ancef.”

Christine gave him that very Martha-esque look of  _ yes, Doctor, I also know how to read a chart.  _ “Yes, Dr. Boyce. I know. It’s vanc, plus a mig of midazolam.”

Phil shook his head slightly. “Sorry. Backseat doctors. You know how we are.”

Christine shrugged it off. “Backseat nurses are worse, and I’ve had one of those over my shoulder for twenty-six years.” She patted Chris’ shoulder. “Give me a ring if you need anything else. They’ll take you back once your antibiotics are all in.”

Chris nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Chapel.”

After Christine headed out, Chris started to look a little glazed.  _ “Hello.” _

Phil smiled. “That midazolam hitting you?”

“Either that or I can fly without a starship,” Chris said dazedly.

Phil laughed lightly and kissed his forehead. “Told you it’d help.”

“I should listen to you more, baby.” Chris looked down and played with Phil’s fingers for a moment. “Everybody knows, right?”

“Everybody knows,” Phil confirmed. “Mom and Dad are on standby for my call when you come out of surgery. Jim’s coming straight here from HQ as soon as his meeting’s done. Erin’s on her way from Betazed, and Laura called this morning to say she put Cait in command for the day, so she’ll be there to answer when you’re out.”

Chris smiled softly. “The whole family,” he said softly. “Will you be there when I wake up?”

“Oh, Chrissy, of course I will. Of course.” Phil kissed Chris’ fingertips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Phil could see Chris’ eyes going glassy as the sedative really started to hit him. “You...you know where my important papers are, right? In that safe under my nightstand? My will, all my financial records - ”

_ Oh, god.  _ “I know, love, but I’m not going to need them,” Phil insisted. “You’re gonna be fine by tonight.”

“Don’t let them give you any shit about me willing stuff to Jim,” Chris insisted hazily. “Charlie told me last Christmas that it was fine, even though we weren’t blood-related, that I just had to - ”

“Chrissy - ”

“Listen,” Chris pressed, “there’s a document on my terminal labeled  _ JTP.  _ The passcode is your birthday in stardate form. If something happens, be sure my dad gets it. I don’t know where he is, but he shouldn’t be too hard to find.” Chris saw the look on Phil’s face and sought to forestall his objections. “Promise me, please?”

_ Love. No matter what.  _ “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, I promise.”

Chris sighed, letting his lips curl into a smile again. “Phil,” he mumbled. “Beautiful, sweet Phil. Bright eyes. Gentle smile. So good. Such a good man.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, my love. I look at you and all I see is everything I missed for so long, everything I put you through.”

_ Try not to look back with regret. Try to look forward with memory. _

Phil leaned forward and kissed Chris’ sleepy lips. “I would do every single bit of it again, sweetheart,” he insisted. “You hear me? All those horizons had to meet the way they did in order for things to turn out like this. All of that had to happen the way it did for us to get to forever. Don’t apologize for it, Chrissy. I don’t regret it for a second.”

Chris pressed his forehead to Phil’s, breathing deeply. “Love you, Philip John,” he said softly. “No matter what happens today. Love you forever. For better or for worse.”

The implications of the phrase were not lost on Phil, and they wrapped themselves around Phil’s heart, radiating warmth and sweetness and  _ forever forever forever.  _ “In sickness and in health.”

They lay there quietly for several long moments, breathing one another’s air and listening to one another’s heartbeats, when a little  _ ding!  _ signaled that Chris’ vancomycin was fully infused.

“All right, gentlemen,” Christine’s voice said gently from behind them. “It’s time to go.”

_ No no no I’m not ready I’m not ready yet just a little longer a few more minutes with him please… _

Chris’ hand stroked through Phil’s hair. “Sweet love,” he whispered. “I’ll see you soon, right?”

Phil nodded, kissing Chris’ mouth again. “Yes, you will,” he replied. “I love you so much, Chris.”

Chris smiled sleepily. “Love you more.”

That was at 0800. By the time Len came back to the family waiting room, it was nearly 1700. Jim was dozing, but awake, his head pillowed on Phil’s lap, and Erin was sitting on his other side, an iron grip on his hand.

Instead of sitting in the chairs across from the three of them, when Len stumbled into the room, he plopped down in the same row, right next to Jim, and tugged him to his side like a teddy bear, kissing him on the cheek. “Textbook,” he said to Phil. “Couldn’t have gone better.”

Erin knocked her head back against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief. Jim grabbed a hold of Len and wouldn’t let go. But Phil just kept looking at Len, as if trying to divine what happened now. “He’s stable?”

Len nodded happily. “Totally. His pressure’s still a little low, but nothing I wouldn’t expect given what we just did to him. It’ll bounce back.”

Phil tried to process this, tried to grab onto the practicals, sandwiched as he was between two examples of the euphoric relief he probably ought to feel. “How much were you able to remyelinate?”

“T11 to about L4,” Len answered. “Did as much as I could on the corresponding spinal nerves, but those lower ones were really hard to access; I don’t know how well they were treated.”

“What about mobility?”

Len shrugged. “Open question. I don’t think he’ll be running any marathons again, but beyond that, it really depends on how well PT goes.”

To Phil’s right, Erin laughed. “Chris in physical therapy,” she muttered. “I pity the poor sap who has to push him on that front.”

Phil just steepled his fingers in front of his face, absorbing the news.  _ The hard part’s over. And the hard part’s still to come. Goalposts. _

“Phil?” Jim said gently. “You okay?”

Phil nodded without opening his eyes. “I’m fine, Jim,” he said. Standing, he wiped his hands on his jeans. “I, uh...I gotta call some people before he wakes up. My parents. Laura. Everybody.” He gestured to the hall. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

In the hall, Phil braced himself against a pillar, taking a couple of deep breaths. Everything Len had just said was unambiguously good news - a successful procedure, a stable Chris, chances for improvements in his physical condition. But Phil didn’t know how Chris would take it. A successful remyelination did not a miracle make, and from physical therapy to more psychotherapy to acclimating to life with a disability to the uncertainty regarding his future in Starfleet, there was still a  _ ton _ of work to do.

Phil was just opening his comm to call Maine when he heard a voice behind him. “Phil?”  _ Len.  _ “You sure you’re doing all right? ‘Cause you just got some damn good news, and you sure don’t look all right.”

Phil sighed and knocked his head against the pillar gently. “Growing pains.”

“Pardon?”

“Growing pains,” Phil repeated. “For some stupid reason, even after six months, I still return to a thought of  _ when he’s better _ or  _ when things are normal again.  _ But they’re not  _ gonna  _ be normal again. Not like they used to be, anyway. We’d barely started the last chapter of our lives when this one came crashing in, and I’ve gotta wrap my head around the fact that it’s a permanent visitor.” He shrugged. “Growing pains. Adjustment to a new normal. And a crappy one, at that.”

“You know better than that, Phil,” Len countered gently. “Yeah, you’re right in that things aren’t gonna go back to what they used to be. Hell,  _ you’re  _ the one who told me I ain’t got a magic wand to wave and fix everything. But you can get  _ close.  _ One day at a time, with a hell of a lot of work, things’ll start normalizing again.” Len put a hand on Phil’s arm. “Don’t put the cart before the horse. I know you think you should be farther along in this process by now, but you’re still in the acute phase, where you’re up to your eyeballs in stress and trauma. You’re  _ way  _ early for making practical strides.”

Phil sighed heavily, fiddling with his communicator. “It’s just so hard,” he said quietly, “seeing him like this.”

Len was quiet for a long moment, arms folded in front of his body. “He’s still seeing Liz Dehner, right?”

“Yeah. They’ve got an appointment next week. Why?”

Len shrugged. “Maybe you should see her yourself.”

“What?” Phil shook his head. “I don’t need a therapist, Len.”

_ “Everybody _ needs a therapist,” Len insisted. “Most of all dumbasses like us who fall in love with altruistic maverick captains who put everything before their own damn welfare. Phil, look at this from the outside for a second. You’re barely sleeping. You’ve lost weight. You’re quieter, more reserved. And who can blame you? The person you love more than you love yourself is hurting. You’re bending over backward to try to take care of him, and frankly  _ everybody _ should get lessons in taking care of someone you love from you; but it’s burning you out, and I can tell.” He pursed his lips. “The Admiral ain’t the only one with trauma to deal with. I know you’re damn protective of him, but you don’t have to do this all by yourself.”

Len was right. Phil  _ hated  _ when Len was right. He’d known for some time - on some deep subconscious level, at least - that his picture should appear in the dictionary next to the term  _ caregiver burnout,  _ but he’d vociferously denied it, stuffing that feeling down deep, deep in the gyri of his mind and pretending it wasn’t there. Because for all his clinical and psychological knowledge, something hot and slimy always tried to interject that admitting to burnout in caring for Chris must equate to not loving Chris as much as he’d always thought he had. Rationally, Phil knew that was bullshit, but his emotional core didn’t really care about rationality.

_ But if Len can see it, _ Phil thought to himself,  _ then Chris definitely can. _

And that was unacceptable.

“Yeah,” Phil murmured under his breath. “Maybe you’ve got a point.”

Len’s lips quirked into that smirky smile again. “It’s been known to happen. Now c’mon, make your calls. You know he’ll want you there when he comes to.”

~

“I was hoping you’d want to see me.”

Phil smiled sheepishly. “It was brought to my attention that it might be a smart idea.”

“I’d say so.” Dr. Dehner looked at him neutrally. “You’ve had a hell of a few months.”

“So I have.”

Dr. Dehner smiled. “What’s on your mind?”

Phil looked down at his hands. The question was so complex it was almost laughable. “It’s just...hard,” he oversimplified. “Seeing him like this. Realizing how some things are  _ always  _ gonna be hard now and we’re never gonna get this time back.”

“Get what back, specifically?”

Phil closed his eyes. “I don’t know how much Chris has told you in his sessions about our history, but I was in love with him for a long, long time before I ever had even the ghost of an inkling that we could be together. And then we  _ were,  _ and we had these seven perfect months of everything I ever wanted but never thought I could have. And then the Narada happened, and it all just...just ground to a halt.”

Dr. Dehner frowned. “Tell me what you mean by  _ ground to a halt.” _

Phil shrugged. “It used to be that he and I would wake up together, we’d go to work, we’d text each other whenever we could all day, we’d come home, have dinner, watch TV, make love, sleep. Now, we wake up and fall asleep at different times, neither of us goes to work, we eat dinner sitting up in bed, sex is a distant memory, and instead of helping babies be born or repairing torn livers or something, my days are helping Chris get to and from the bathroom and holding his emesis basins and keeping track of his litany of meds.” The second that sentence finished, Phil regretted it immensely and buried his head in his hands. “And  _ those  _ are the worst words I’ve ever said in my entire life.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes it sound like I resent Chris,” Phil said, his voice slightly choked. “And  _ I don’t,  _ Dr. Dehner. Not at all. He’s the dearest thing in my world and I would do all of that and more for him if he needed it.”

“Of course you would,” Dr. Dehner said mildly. “He’s your partner. You love him. You’re a team.”

Phil nodded. “Exactly.”

“But it’s a big job to do by yourself.”

Phil let his shoulders slump heavily. “I just wish...I wish we’d had more time. Before this happened, I mean. I wish it hadn’t happened at all, obviously, but I wish we’d had more time to just... _ be _ , before. Even now, it just feels like there’s not enough time to absorb what’s happening, or to...I don’t know what.”

“To grieve?” Dr. Dehner supplied.

Phil frowned, puzzled. “Grieve?”

“Yeah. Between the caretaking responsibilities and the adjustment to the new considerations in your lives, both individually and as a couple, you’re obviously under a tremendous amount of stress, and god knows the sadness and worry about your partner’s physical and mental condition is valid; but what I’m also hearing here is that you haven’t really dedicated any time or energy to grieving. Whether that’s by choice or circumstance, I’m not sure.”

“I know what Chris has to grieve here, but what am I supposed to be grieving?”

“The life you always pictured with him,” Dr. Dehner said simply. “The life you dreamed about for thirty years.”

Now  _ that  _ made sense to Phil. Before he and Chris had become a couple, Phil had made a career out of constructing remarkably elaborate daydreams, letting them play out in the back of his mind and dismissing them with guilt whenever Chris would walk into the room. And after they’d gotten together, somewhere in that same place in his mind, that privately acknowledged but publicly denied part, he’d clung to the chance that maybe some of those daydreams could now become reality. But  _ this  _ was reality now.  _ This  _ was the hand they were dealt, and ahead lay a future that Phil was terrified to realize he had no idea how to navigate, having never predivined the circumstances that had visited them.

“You’re an ob/gyn,” Dr. Dehner said. “Miscarriage, infertility, sexual trauma - you probably know even more about what buried grief does to a person than I do.”

Phil swiped at the tears under his eyes. “He’s  _ here, _ though,” he protested, even as he privately acknowledged the validity of what she was saying. “He’s  _ alive,  _ he’s  _ safe.  _ How can I be upset about something I never had?”

“The same reason you were upset when Chris got married before,” Dr. Dehner said. “Because it was an end to something. That dream, that fantasy, is a part of you, just like your love and your intellect and your passions. It’s something that makes you  _ you.”  _ She smiled sadly. “It’s like any other kind of loss, Phil - it has its own grieving process, and the only way out is through. And as with any other kind of loss, letting go of that dream hurts like hell.”

Phil looked back at her. “But if I don’t, I can’t give him what he needs. Or what  _ I  _ need, I guess.”

“True. But just as importantly, you won’t be able to appreciate the reality you can  _ build  _ with him going forward. There’s a loss here, yes, but there’s also an  _ opportunity.  _ You made a good point - he’s alive and safe, and while I’d never breach confidentiality, I don’t think I’m spilling any state secrets when I tell you that he  _ adores  _ you. You might have lost that fantasy, but you’ve got decades ahead of you to build new memories in reality.” She paused, her lips quirking a little. “You’re in Holland.”

Phil blinked. “Holland?”

“It’s from an ancient story written by a woman who was trying to explain what it’s like to raise a child with a disability,” Dr. Dehner elaborated. “Imagine you’re planning a trip to Italy. No expense spared. You’ve dreamed about it for years, you’ve memorized all the guidebooks, you’ve got it all planned out that  _ this  _ is when you’ll go see the Coliseum and  _ this  _ is when you’ll take a ride on a gondola. You plan and you plan and you get on your shuttle to Italy, but when you land, the flight attendant welcomes you to Holland. You’re baffled. Holland? You were supposed to go to Italy! You’d been  _ dreaming  _ of Italy! You were  _ prepared  _ for Italy! But no. You’re in Holland. Deal with it. You’re forced to adapt. But the thing is, Holland’s not a terrible place. It’s a  _ beautiful _ place. It’s  _ different  _ from Italy, absolutely, but it’s got its own unique, wondrous beauty. Eventually, over time, you’ll look around and you’ll start to notice the Dutch tulips, the windmills, the beauty of where you  _ are,  _ rather than the absence of where you are not.” She smiled gently. “Holland will never be Italy, but Holland has its own beauty. Grieve the loss of Italy, but look forward to tomorrow in Holland.”

Phil swallowed tightly, trying to smile through the tears on his face. “I don’t know Dutch.”

“Neither does Chris,” Dr. Dehner said. “You’ll learn it together.”

~

“All right, he’s starting PT next week with Susan Patterson. They might clash at the beginning; Susan’s bubblier than a bottle o’ club soda and the Admiral’s, well, not.” Len raked a nervous hand through his hair, looking back at Chris and Jim talking arm’s length away. “He’s off the kumaricet, thank Christ, but he can have all the panaprine he wants,  _ only  _ if his GFR’s okay. If it’s not, take him off the panaprine and stick with NSAIDs until his creatinine gets down to - ”

“Len,” Phil said gently, putting a hand on his arm. “I know.”

Len sighed. “I know you do. Sorry. Just...well. You know.”

“Better than most,” Phil said, smiling.

Len shot him an anxious grin. “Any advice for me?”

Phil laughed lowly. “Len, you got thrust into CMO during a mass casualty event on your first trip out as a  _ cadet.  _ You don’t need my advice.”

“I’d still take it.”

Phil looked at Len for a long moment, the wunderkind he’d admired since the moment he read his name in a medical journal, the profoundly gifted trauma surgeon who’d saved Chris’ life, and now the man who’d become more than a colleague, more than a friend, not quite a son, but something deeper and richer and warm.  _ I have nothing to teach this man, and yet he wants to learn. _

He smiled. “Never ignore your intuition. It’s smarter than you are. When you walk into the room with a patient, leave everything else at the door. Technology is extraordinary and should be used with vigor, but it should never be a substitute for your own hands and mind.” He leaned in close to him. “And love Jim for all he’s worth. Even when it’s hard.  _ Especially  _ when it’s hard.”

Len nodded solemnly. “Aye, sir.”

Phil pulled him into a hug. “And cut that  _ aye, sir  _ shit out; you know how I hate it.”

Len laughed. “Hard habit to break.”

They walked over to where Jim was stooped down, embracing Chris as hard as he dared, his eyes closed tightly, whispering something too low for Phil to hear. When they broke apart, Phil put his hand on Chris’ shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“Behave yourself, kid,” Chris said in that gentle teasing way he had. “Don’t make me come up there.”

Jim smiled nervously. “Never been that good at behaving myself, but I’ll do my best.”

“Call me anytime.”

“You too.”

“Go easy on your partner.”

_ “You too.” _

They looked at one another for a long moment, leaving important things unsaid.

“I’ll see you soon,” Jim said softly.

“You will,” Chris answered. “Dismissed, Captain.”

And with a final smile, Jim and Len walked away, boarding the shuttle that would take them up to spacedock, up to the Enterprise.

“You okay?” Phil asked lowly when they’d vanished from sight.

Chris closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he half-whispered, leaning his cheek on Phil’s hand on his shoulder.

Phil crouched down to look Chris right in his bittersweet eyes. “Chris.”

Chris smiled sadly. “I know I didn’t know her that well, but I miss her,” he admitted. “She’s a fun little ship.”

“Oh, love.” Phil curled Chris’ hair behind his ear. “Jim’ll take good care of her.”

“I know he will,” Chris breathed. “I just wish I’d gotten more time with her.”

Phil nodded sagely. “Welcome to Holland.”


	28. Chapter 28

The new normal went something like this:

Chris would wake first. If it was a wheelchair day, Phil would generally wake shortly thereafter, just because that required more movement on Chris’ side of the bed that jostled Phil awake; if it was a cane day, he usually got another little bit of sleep until he either woke up naturally or Chris prodded him awake. When he woke, Chris would usually be in the kitchen, at his terminal, reading a report or on a teleconference or just catching up on the news. Phil would get them coffee and breakfast. They’d shower, dress, and go to work. Every so often, they’d send or receive a text comm - news, something to make them laugh, a reminder that they needed to stop by the store and pick up milk. Every other evening, Chris would duck out of work early for PT, and even though Phil’s presence there wasn’t technically required, he’d go too if things in Medical were slow. They’d head home, make dinner, and have a quiet evening.

It wasn’t a flashy existence, but neither Phil nor Chris had ever cared for flashiness too much. It was content, dependable, sustainable, and deep, and really,  _ those  _ were the things that mattered. They were healing. They were moving forward with their lives. They’d renewed their commitments to savoring what moments they had together and getting the best out of them, all colored by this new filter of understanding just how fragile life was.

They were learning Dutch together, to borrow the metaphor.

_ Beep-beep-bzzt. Beep-beep-bzzt. _

Phil looked up from charting his op note.  _ This  _ was unusual. Virtually all the communication he and Chris did during the work day was done by text, not by voice comm. “Hey, you.”

Chris answered with a long, overdramatic groan.

Phil chuckled lowly. “What’s wrong?”

_ “Jim,”  _ Chris answered waspishly.

“What’d he do now?”

_ “Phil, it’s a lot,”  _ Chris said grimly.  _ “You gonna be free for lunch?” _

“I think so, but I need to check the board. Want me to come by?”

_ “If you can.”  _ Chris sighed heavily.  _ “I gotta talk to you.” _

Whatever this was, it didn’t sound good at all. “Okay. I can be there in an hour. Let me do some quick rounds and I’ll head your way.”

_ “Thank you. Love you.” _

Phil smiled softly. “Love you too.”

An hour later, Phil was sitting across from Chris at his desk, salad going untouched next to him, as he looked at the stream of messages that had colored Chris’ morning.

“They...they stripped him of rank?”

Chris just nodded, rubbing one eye.

“What the hell happened?”

“He put the Prime Directive in a blender and hit the  _ puree  _ button, that’s what.”

“Literally every CO in the history of Starfleet’s done that. Present company very much included.”

“Yeah, but the rest of us didn’t lie about it on an official report,” Chris sighed.

“The rest of you didn’t get  _ caught  _ lying about it on an official report,” Phil muttered, setting the PADD down. “He was saving lives.”

_ “We  _ know that,” Chris said.  _ “Jim  _ knows that. Hell, even Spock knows that, and he’s the one that sold Jim down the river.”

Phil stabbed at his salad angrily.  _ “Prime Directive,”  _ he muttered under his breath.

“Hey,” Chris said with gentle admonishment. “I don’t think Jim’s actions were immoral, but I happen to think the Prime Directive’s a net good.”

“In some cases, sure,” Phil said. “In others, it kills people. Like it would’ve here, if Jim hadn’t intervened.”

“Unnecessary help given to growing organisms and societies impedes their natural development - ”

“Emphasis on  _ unnecessary,”  _ Phil interrupted. “You ever notice how Starfleet tends to get real pearl-clutchy about the Prime Directive when it serves their larger agenda?”

Chris frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Jim Kirk is a shit-disturber. A thorn in HQ’s side. They’ve been looking for a way to get him out of their hair for the last year.” Phil shrugged. “This qualifies, and they’re capitalizing on it.”  _ And you’re cut from the same cloth, and they might try the same shit with you. Don’t let them. _

“You think they’re using this to get rid of him?”

_ Duh.  _ “Seems pretty clear to me, honey. Marcus and Komack led the panel and they didn’t let you in. This is underhanded shit.”

Chris swallowed uncomfortably. “He  _ did  _ break the rules.”

“Enough to merit having his rank stripped?”

Chris broke eye contact, looking down to his desk. “No.” He put his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

Phil reached across the desk, tangling his fingers with Chris’. “How was he, after you told him?”

“Wounded,” Chris answered. “Broken. Like I’d just taken away his world.” He gave Phil a tiny, sad smile. “Probably like I was, when they upped me to Admiral.”

“Maybe you should go find him and - ”

Phil was cut off by the sound of Chris’ terminal chiming with a new message. “God, what now?”

“Who is it?”

“Marcus,” Chris spat, before his face softened and his jaw dropped open.

“Love? What?”

“They’re...they’re giving her back to me.”

_ What?  _ “What?”

“These are orders,” Chris said reverently. “These are orders assigning me as CO.”

Phil got up and came around to Chris’ side of the terminal, seeing the message for himself. “Babe, your nerves...are you sure this is a good idea?”

Chris shook his head vaguely. “No, I’m not. But I’m not likely to be offered her again. Phil, It’s the  _ Enterprise.  _ I’ve gotta take her back.” He reached for Phil’s hand and squeezed it tight. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be with me, and Len. Look.”

Phil crouched down closer, looking at the crew manifest. His own name was there, alongside Len’s as co-CMOs.  _ They’ve already put his preferences down. This is legit. _

There was something else there, too. The first officer spot on the manifest was blank.

_...Huh. There’s an idea. _

“Chris, who’s your XO gonna be?”

Chris turned to look at Phil, and Phil saw the lights turn on in his eyes.  _ You know who it’ll be. _

He grabbed for his cane, making his way out of his office as fast as he could. “I gotta go talk to Marcus.”

~

Unsurprisingly, Chris couldn’t leave with Phil when Phil’s shift was over. It wasn’t every day that an admiral got assigned starship command, especially a disabled veteran, nor that a captain got knocked all the way down to cadet and then bumped back up to commander within a matter of hours. There were small mountains of paperwork and meetings to sift through, and so when Phil had come back to Chris’ office to collect him and bring him home, Chris had let him go with an apologetic kiss. “I’ll take BART home.”

“Nonsense. Call me and I’ll pick you up.”

“Might be late. I’ve still gotta track Jim down and tell him.”

“I don’t care. I’ll be up.” Phil squeezed his hands. “Love you.”

“Love you.” Chris didn’t let go of Phil’s hands. “Hey.”

Phil smiled up at him. “What?”

Chris grinned. “You’re gonna be my CMO again.”

Phil felt his adrenal glands spit out adrenaline as his anxiety ticked upward. Being on the leadership team of a starship with Chris was one of the greatest privileges of his life, but it also meant so many moments of seeing people he loved hurt, seeing people he loved die, working his ass off in increasingly creative ways to try to prevent totally senseless deaths. Phil was almost sixty years old; he didn’t know how much more trauma-specific creativity he had in him.

His hands still held the muscle memory of massaging Chris’ heart back to life on the Lovell years ago. Something in him he was trying to ignore was  _ terrified. _

“And you’re gonna be our captain again,” he said instead, focusing on the positive.

As the sun was setting a couple hours later, and as Phil was trying to focus on separating the laundry, his comm chimed again, this time with a text from Chris.  _ “Gonna be later than I thought. Emergency session @ Daystrom re: the London bombing. All XOs and up.” _

Phil texted him back. “Boo. That’s okay. You got the problem child?”

_ “Yeah, he’s with me. I’ll call you when we finish up here.” _

“I’ll be here. Love you.”

_ “xoxoxo” _

And Phil went back to the laundry.

He was dozing, a book open on his chest and the hum of the washer in the background, when his comm went off next. No chirping this time - a dissonant whine of urgency. An emergency call.

_ “Kirk to Boyce!”  _ Jim’s panicked voice shouted as soon as Phil opened the comm; there was a cacophony of voices and phaser fire and noises he couldn’t identify behind him.  _ “It’s Chris; you’ve gotta come now!” _

Jim hadn’t even finished the sentence before Phil was on his feet and out the door, with only his keys, comm, and wallet, running to the car. “What happened?”

_ “Bones is here, he’s with him, we’re beaming him to Medical,”  _ Jim continued, sounding a little hysterical.  _ “There was an attack. He got shot.” _

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, trying to resist the urge to throw up. “Oh, god. Oh, god, was he conscious?”

Jim’s voice shrank exponentially.  _ “No.” _

Phil’s drive to Medical was a short one, but it sure as hell wasn’t short enough. Once he’d parked his car, he ran at full speed in through triage, only pausing to wave his badge for access to the trauma unit.  _ “Len, where are you?”  _ he screamed.

“They’re in three,” someone Phil didn’t see answered.

Phil rounded the nurses’ station and burst into trauma three, not giving himself time to prepare himself for what he might see. “Oh,  _ Jesus.” _

Chris was sheet-white and unconscious, already intubated, his hand hanging limply from his side, a nurse trying to find a decent spot for an IV in his veins deflated from blood loss. They’d opened his uniform’s top to work on his chest, and from Phil’s angle, he could see a scorch mark on the right side of his jacket. The grey and white material, and Chris’ skin, was spattered with blood.

“ - call up to genetics to pull his stem cell profile and get them to start cranking out lung tissue. Up that O2 to 100%. Run two units type-specific PRBC and push two migs per kig of duazalor. Continuous cardiac monitoring with rhythm differentiation; I don’t wanna have to run a cath unless I gotta. And for god’s sake, keep an eye on those kidneys.” Len paused, looking up, and realized Phil was in the room. “Phil, I dunno if you should be here right now.”

Part of Phil was inclined to agree with him - the part that was hot and dizzy and shaky and nauseated. Instead, Phil said, “I need to be with him.”

“I gotta take him up for repair,” Len replied, not taking his eyes of Chris’ cardiac monitor, “You wanna scrub in?”

Phil flicked his eyes down from Chris to his hands; they were trembling violently.  _ I’d be of no use in there.  _ “No.”

Len nodded. “Novak, could you walk Dr. Boyce down to the family waiting room?”

Novak, the nurse who’d been trying to start Chris’ IV, stood and started to walk Phil out when Len called back to him. “Phil. Remember my promise.”

_ “I promise I’m gonna do everything I can for him.” _

Phil just nodded, looking back at Chris’ pale, still face. “Love you, sweetheart,” he whispered, too quietly for anybody else to hear.

Jim was waiting for him in the family waiting room, in his dress greys, jacket undone, blood all over his hands and his clothes. The second he and Phil laid eyes on one another, they collapsed into one another’s arms, weeping.

“Why’s it always gotta be him?” Jim wept into Phil’s shoulder. “Why does  _ he  _ always have to be the one this stuff happens to?”

Phil shook his head. The waves of too-familiar helplessness - echoes of everything after the Narada, echoes of Chris being missing on Damma - started to roll in, seizing and twisting every practical impulse Phil had left in his body. “I don’t know,” he choked. “I don’t know.”

~

It was just before five in the morning when Len sank heavily into the chair next to Jim. “He’s stable.”

Phil let out a breath he’d been holding since he’d gotten Jim’s frantic comm, and the adrenaline drop made him all hot and dizzy again.

“His right pulmonary vessels got the brunt of it,” he said softly. “Also his right lung. He had some pretty intense arrythmic episodes intraop - from the pulse energy of the weapon, I think - but they’re stabilized now, and his heart itself is okay. He’s gonna be sore as hell when he wakes up, but beyond that, he’s in the clear.” He looked down at the blood stain on Jim’s hand - Chris’ blood, from where Jim had put pressure on the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. “If you hadn’t done that, Jim, I couldn’t have saved him.”

That did it. Phil stumbled to the trash can in the corner of the room and threw up.

_ He came that close. He came that close to dying. Jim’s right hand is all that separated him from death. That separated me from a world without him. _

That same right hand came to rub between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay,” Jim murmured. “It’s okay. He’s okay.”

Phil rocked back on his heels. Jim handed him a cup of water - Phil had no idea where he’d gotten it - and encouraged him to sip on it. Len just looked on with concern.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he admitted softly. “I don’t know how many more times I can see him flirting with death.”

Jim just looked down, saying nothing; but Len nodded and said, “I get it.”

And he would. It was an occupational hazard of being in love with exploration junkies in gold shirts.

“How long will he be out?” Jim asked.

“Another few hours,” Len answered. “Why?”

Jim held his comm up. “I’ve got a dozen messages stacked up. Marcus is really hellbent on talking to me right away.” He scoffed a little. “I’m still Chris’ XO, remember?”

_ God.  _ In the melee, Phil had forgotten entirely about yesterday afternoon’s conversation with Chris, about Starfleet trying to squeeze Jim out of the picture and Chris deftly manipulating the system so they couldn’t.  _ Was that really only yesterday afternoon? _

Len nodded. “You’re good to go, if you gotta. I can comm you if there’s any change.”

“No, no,” Jim protested. “I...I need to know he’s okay. I need to be here.”

“He’s okay, Jim,” Len murmured. “There’s nothin’ you can do for him from here. You know he’d want you to take care of business for him.”

Jim nodded reluctantly, then squeezed Phil’s shoulder. “Phil? That okay with you?”

Phil nodded blankly. “Yeah, kid,” he whispered. “That’s fine. I just wanna go see Chris.”

Jim pursed his lips. “Okay.”

Len stood. “I’ll walk with you to PACU, Phil.” He stopped and put a hand on Jim’s back. “C’mon back when you’re done. If he’s still out, I’ll letcha nap in the call room.”

Jim put an arm around Len’s waist and slumped into him endearingly. “You spoil me, Bones.”

Len kissed the top of Jim’s head. “Somebody’s got to, darlin’.”

It was nearly noon when Chris regained consciousness. He’d been extubated and cleaned of bloodstains, but still looked eerily pale, and when he came to, his wince was weak and pained.

“C’mon, Chrissy,” Phil whispered, cupping his cheek. “You’re okay. I’m here. Come back to me.”

A peek of grey-blue, just a little sliver, before they closed again. Then another. Finally, disoriented, unfixed eyes blinked open and stayed that way. Another beat before they managed to focus on Phil’s face, and then with great confusion. “Phil?” Chris rasped.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

Chris twitched his nose adorably, trying to escape the irritation of his nasal cannulae, before frowning at Phil. “‘re you crying?” he asked, befuddled. “Why y’ crying?”

Phil suddenly felt very,  _ very  _ tired. “Christopher Vincent,” he grit out, “if I ever,  _ ever  _ have to see you again in  _ mortal goddamn peril  _ on an operating table because of some  _ bullshit  _ a fucking  _ maniac  _ did to you, I…” The tears built in his throat, squeezing his vocal cords tightly before letting Phil speak again. “I  _ swear to god,  _ Chris.” And he stooped forward, pressing his lips to every bony knuckle of each long, long finger on Chris’ right hand.

Chris was silent for a moment, so silent that Phil wondered if he’d gone back under. Then: “Love you.”

Phil looked up at his partner, shook his head without really knowing why - love, terror, exasperation, whatever - and flipped his comm. “Boyce to McCoy,” he grumbled. “He’s awake. Get Jim.”

As they waited for Jim and Len to come in, Chris flitted in and out, his eyes stubbornly closing again every time he tried to force them to stay open, whimpering the tiniest little whimpers of pain in his chest, irritation in his nose, annoyance at wanting to fall back asleep and not being able to. Phil stayed next to him, quietly holding his hand, quietly soothing him through the discomfort until Len arrived and he could get cleared for more panaprine, and a surprising thought streaked through his mind.

_ I get it, Becca. Why you felt you had to protect yourself from this agony. I get it now. _

_ But I can’t. Because I can’t not love him with every last part of my being. _

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Chris’ temple. “I’m so mad at you,” he admitted. “For almost getting yourself killed. Again. For putting me and Jim and Len and all the people you love through this. Again. For putting  _ yourself  _ through this. Again.” He ran his hand through Chris’ curls, stroking them back from his forehead. “And I know it isn’t your fault, and I know being mad at you isn’t rational, but I  _ am,  _ dammit. Because I love you and I want to grow old with you, and every time it looks like I might not get to, I don’t want to breathe anymore.”

Chris turned and looked at Phil, his eyes a little crossed and blank with anesthesia and farsightedness. “Love you,” he whispered again. “Love you...more than the stars.”

It was a poetic, uncommonly romantic statement for Chris to make, and one with implications far broader than they would be if they were a pair of accountants and not people for whom the stars were life and livelihood.

Phil’s emotional cascade was cut off by Jim and Len bursting into the room, Jim almost passing out at seeing Chris conscious and whole and alive, and Len, in that perfectly composed  _ Len _ way, helping Jim to a chair and then checking on Chris’ vitals.

“What’s the damage?” Chris managed thickly.

“Through-and-through phaser burns to the right chest. Massive trauma to the right lung. Be glad lung tissue doesn’t take as long as myelin to regenerate. Your pulmonary vessels on that side were Swiss cheese.”

“You fixed it?”

“It was a multi-person job, but yeah,  _ we  _ fixed it.”

Chris rolled his head back to look at Phil again, asking with his eyes  _ did you fix it? _

“Are you fucking  _ kidding me?”  _ Phil said on a breath of an unamused laugh. “I couldn’t stop shaking long enough to scrub in. No, Rubino and Massman assisted.”

“The damage is repaired, Admiral, but you’re gonna be sore as shit for a few days, and you’re not going  _ anywhere  _ for at least a week,” Len continued.

Chris exhaled on a groan and looked back to Phil.

“I don’t fucking think so,” Phil said, tucking the covers closer around Chris’ shoulders. “I’m mad at you, remember? Don’t come to me looking for a doctor’s note to get you out of bed when you got shot with a goddamn  _ particle weapon  _ last night.”

Chris rolled his eyes and reached for Phil’s hand, turning his attention to Jim. “What about the SOB who did this?”

“Harrison,” Jim answered. The name meant nothing to Phil. “He’s on Qo’noS. Scotty tracked him down. I’m gonna go get him tonight.”

Len bent his head and closed his eyes, and Phil didn’t think it was all projection that he could see the  _ please don’t do this please don’t put yourself in danger like this again I love you please  _ in his posture. He could read Len like a book on his worst day, and he was fluent in  _ the love of my life is about to do something very dangerous. _

Chris frowned. “Your command…?”

“Reinstated by Marcus,” Jim finished. “Guess every now and then I can make a good case, too.”

Chris smiled weakly and jerked his head a little. “Get over here.”

Jim came closer to Chris’ edge of the bed and shook his hand professionally. When Chris tugged Jim down to his level, awkwardly hugging him as much as he could, Jim closed his eyes and sank into the one-armed embrace.

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay kid?” Chris murmured. “Not Admiral to Captain.  _ Chris to Jim.” _

Jim nodded solemnly. “Okay, Chris.”


	29. Chapter 29

The next morning, Phil tried to get a little bit of work done. By this, he meant that his beloved partner literally shooed him from his hospital room with an  _ “I’m fine, Philip, fit as a fiddle”  _ as if he hadn’t been  _ nearly fucking shot to death  _ thirty-six hours before. Phil relented after a bit of protest, but not without some overdramatic huffing to the sounds of Chris calling him a mother hen. It was almost like things were normal again.

Almost.

But between a reasonably quiet floor, his own inability to concentrate, and the constant litany of  _ what are you doing here, shouldn’t you be upstairs with your partner?  _ from his colleagues, Phil got to the early afternoon before he admitted defeat and went back to Chris’ room. “Hey.”

Chris looked up from scowling at a PADD. “Hi,” he said. “What are you doing back so soon?”

Phil held up a roll of gauze. “Bandage change.” It was an excuse; Chris didn’t need a bandage change yet.

“I thought nurses did that.”

“You gonna argue playing doctor with me?” Phil teased mildly.

“Sir, no sir,” Chris answered.

Phil nodded down to the PADD. “What’s happening?”

Chris shook his head. “Weird shit,” he answered. “The good news is that Jim took this Harrison asshole alive.”

“The prime suspect in the London bombing?”  _ The one who damn near killed you? _

“That’s the one.”

“Where’s the bad news in that?”

“The bad news is that nothing else that’s happening right now makes any sense,” Chris said. “I’ve looked in planetary population databases on three different Federation worlds so far, and there are a hell of a lot of John Harrisons out there, but none that match this guy. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere.”

“You think it’s an alias?”

Chris scoffed. “Not the most imaginative one he could’ve crafted. And now, Marcus is missing.”

Phil stilled his hands and looked up to Chris, baffled. “What?”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “I’ve been texting Barnett and Nogura to ask if they had any intel to share, and Rick told me he’s interim Fleet Admiral because Marcus is MIA.”

“What do you make of that?”

“I have no idea,” Chris said honestly. “Marcus isn’t the kind to go  _ poof  _ into thin air.”

“Especially now,” Phil agreed. “Where the hell would he have gotten off to? He’s the one who was so hellbent on this Harrison guy’s capture.”

Chris shifted in bed, looking out the window with a pensive look on his face. “Not capture,” he said slowly. “Execution. He didn’t want us to take him alive. Knowing Marcus, he’s probably pissed that Jim did.”

“So pissed he’d disappear?”

Chris shrugged. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, but when has sense ever been Marcus’ strong - ”

A violent tremor shook the floor. It was less like a California-typical earthquake and more like that foreboding tremor under Phil’s feet when that gigantic fiery column of light had plunged into the Bay last year. Yet outside, the skies were still crisp and blue, with no evidence of a similar frightening omen.

“What the hell was that?” Chris asked.

Phil squinted out the window, spotting something now, way, way high up in the sky and not identifiable yet as anything more than a black speck. Chris followed his gaze, and they watched in horrified silence as it grew closer and closer.

“That’s a starship,” Phil breathed. A starship falling from orbit, and falling  _ fast,  _ plowing right in the direction of Starfleet’s eleven square kilometers of space on the bay - HQ, Medical, the Academy, everything.

“Oh, god,” Chris said helplessly. “Oh, god, it’s gonna hit.” He grabbed Phil’s hand as they watched it teeter past the point at which any recovery was possible, veering this way and that, with no apparent attempt on the pilot’s part to minimize the number of casualties.

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the impact, the active killing of innocent people on the ground. His mind’s eye filled in the blanks anyway at the thunderous sound of the crash, the creaking of collapsing metal, the screams of people, and the waves churning up from the Bay and pressing forward onto the land. When he finally had the courage to open his eyes, it was a sea of fire and blood and scorched earth and destruction. It looked like a warzone.

_ Perhaps it is. _

He and Chris watched in impotent, horrified silence, hand in hand, hopeless to understand what the hell had just transpired. Phil found his voice first. “They...they’re gonna need me downstairs.”

Chris didn’t take his eyes off the scene below, but he nodded. “Go,” he husked. “Go. I’ve gotta start comming people. Try to figure out what the hell just happened.”

Phil brushed a quick kiss onto Chris’ temple, then made his way down to the emergency room, dread in his every step. It was standing room only in triage, and in the ED proper, it was a storm of his colleagues’ voices.

“ - approximately seventy percent of the body; let’s get her up to the burn unit - ”

“ - two units of FFP stat - shit, his pressure’s tanking, get some vasopressin - ”

“ - tighten that damn tourniquet - goddammit, I don’t think I can save this leg - ”

Then, from the curtain to Phil’s right.  _ “I need another pair of hands in here!”  _

Phil steeled himself internally -  _ when you walk into the room with a patient, leave everything else at the door -  _ and entered the curtain to offer his assistance.

~

Three hours, three crush injuries, two burn cases, a handful of smoke inhalations, and more broken bones than Phil could keep track of later, Prisha Ahluwalia, the head of the emergency department, appeared at Phil’s elbow as he was sanitizing his hands between curtains.

“Phil,” she said lowly, “we need to talk.”

Phil huffed exasperatedly at her. “We’re all hands on deck here; can it wait?”

“Phil,” she repeated. Phil looked at her; her face, like her voice, was grim. “It cannot wait.”

_ Oh god. Oh god, what now? _

Phil followed her upstairs and down a hall, to a small admin office adjacent to one of the call rooms.

“HQ just got a report from Lieutenant Sulu on the Enterprise,” she said gravely. “He’s acting captain.”

Something got very heavy and very hot in Phil’s gut.

“As the Enterprise was closing in on the enemy ship over Earth, her warp core misaligned. She was about to crash, but Kirk fixed the core and saved his crew.”

“How?” Phil didn’t know if any actual sound came out with the question; he couldn’t hear his voice over the thundering of his heart.

Dr. Ahluwalia put her hand on his. “He performed a manual realignment from inside the core,” she said, as gently as the words could be said. “There was inadequate time for him to don a safety suit, and once the alignment was complete, inadequate time to scrub the decon room without flooding all of main engineering. Phil, I’m so sorry, but Lieutenant Sulu confirmed that Captain Kirk has died.”

There’s only so much trauma that the human heart and mind and spirit can handle in such a short space of time. When the love of your life was shot and gravely injured the night before last, he came out of surgery yesterday morning, and this afternoon you witnessed a mass casualty event take place, you’re well beyond your capacity to cope with another, somehow even  _ more  _ horrific, trauma, and you just shut down entirely.

Or you feel your heart shatter into even smaller fragments than you knew possible.

_ Sometimes, when you think you can’t give any more of yourself, you find an unexpected reserve. _

Phil put his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and tried to breathe steadily. “Oh, god,” he whispered brokenly. “Oh, Jim.”

“I’m so very sorry,” Dr. Ahluwalia repeated gently.

Phil looked up, jaw still hanging open, and looked around the spartan room as if searching for some itemized list of  _ these are the numbered steps to how to wrap your mind around this.  _ Failing that, he asked, “What about the rest of the crew? What about the ship?”

“Sulu relayed that there were no other casualties. Kirk saved his ship and his crew.”

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force back tears. “Saved his ship and his crew,” he echoed. “For a kid who’s been trying to outrun  _ that _ legacy his entire damn life…” He sniffled. “Where’s Spock? Where’s Len?”

“Commander Spock apparently beamed to Earth’s surface. I’m not sure exactly why. Sulu didn’t mention Dr. McCoy’s whereabouts to me, but our conversation was only brief. I presume he’s in the Enterprise’s medbay.”

Phil’s heart thudded in a pained cadence. All the hell that Phil had just  _ barely _ managed to avoid with Chris, all those times he’d come within a breath of losing Chris...Len was  _ there,  _ Len was  _ living it. _

“I’m taking you off duty, Phil,” Dr. Ahluwalia said gently. “Go be with your partner. He’s gonna need you.”

Phil nodded vaguely, thanking Dr. Ahluwalia, and made his way very slowly up the stairs to Chris’ room, trying to brace himself for telling Chris. He’d had gotten through so, so much since the Narada, from disability to the adjustment to a new professional role to the loss of the future he’d dreamed of, but  _ this... _ this might be the true unsurvivable one. For a brief, horrifying moment, it occurred to Phil that Chris had a PADD up there. He might already know. The idea of him learning that Jim had died while he was alone was a nauseating one.

But when Phil walked into Chris’ room, his partner was looking at his communicator, an uncomprehending little crease between his brows, but lacking any signs that he knew Jim was gone. He sat up a little straighter as Phil walked into the room, grabbing for his hand.

“How bad is it down there?”

Countless times in Phil’s career, he’d had to be the bearer of bad news - everything from  _ unfortunately, your biopsy showed cancerous cells  _ to  _ I’m so sorry, but I don’t see a heartbeat.  _ But looking at Chris in that moment, knowing what  _ he  _ knew but what Chris did not, Phil forgot how to form the words to say what needed saying. His tongue was leaden and his lungs felt untrustworthy of carrying another breath. Instead, he sat next to Chris on the bed and held his hand.

“Phil,” Chris said, his voice pitched lower, “answer me.”

_ Start with answering the question,  _ Phil directed himself.  _ Start with answering how bad it is down there. _

“It’s bad, Chris. It’s really bad.”

Chris audibly swallowed. “What about the Enterprise?”

Phil took a deep breath, trying to suppress a sob. “She’s safe,” he said truthfully. “Her, ah...her core misaligned over Earth.”

Chris frowned, puzzled. “But you said she was safe?”

Phil nodded, looking down at his and Chris’ hands, trying to be sure he was holding on tight. “Jim fixed it,” he whispered.

He looked back up, and he could see, actually  _ see,  _ the puzzle pieces falling into place in Chris’ mind, him doing all the math and the physics necessary to calculate time and rate of descent and rads for a man of Jim’s size. He gave a tiny shake of his head; his mouth formed the word  _ no,  _ but no sound came out.

“Chris,” Phil continued as gently as he could, “Jim  _ walked into the core  _ and fixed it.”

Chris shook his head again, more vigorously this time. “No,” he said, almost casually, as if Phil had just asked him if he wanted another beer. “No, no, no.”

Phil put his hand to Chris’ cheek. “Love…”

Chris’ body started to jerk with the most raw, marrow-deep sobs. His face crumbled. “No, no, no, no, no…”

Phil let a tear go, because he couldn’t help it. “There was nothing anybody could’ve done.”

_ “No.”  _ Chris fell into Phil’s arms and began to sob uncontrollably, wailing with the sort of unrestrained, undiluted grief that makes the soul wince and the heart stutter. Phil just held him close, running a hand through his hair, clutching him to his shoulder, trying to absorb all of that pain, all of that agony that transcended language, heedless of the tears slipping down his own cheeks.

_ “God, please, no, not Jim, not my boy,”  _ Chris wailed.  _ “Not my boy, please, dammit, not my boy.” _

_ That’s what parents do,  _ Mom had said to Chris right after he’d lost his mother.  _ It doesn’t matter what we believe, or if we believe; when we become parents, we will implore any hypothetical deity in earshot to keep our babies safe. _

And curse them if they don’t.

Jim and Chris had spent their entire relationship dancing around what they really were to one another, not unlike how Phil and Chris had before they’d wised up. It was only now, when one was wrenched apart from the other, that Chris was able - instinctually - to claim Jim as his own, as the son he’d never had. As  _ his boy.  _ And the wrenching, wounded yell of anguish from Chris at that loss was something that Phil was certain would haunt him until his dying day.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Phil pressed into Chris’ hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Chris nestled his head beneath Phil’s chin, his forehead pressing against Phil’s Adam’s apple, and fisted his hands in Phil’s scrub top, grabbing tightly enough that Phil feared his nails might cut into his palms, though that would be the least of his pains right now.

_ “Dr. Boyce to the emergency department. Dr. Boyce to the emergency department.” _

Phil heard the page, but did not move. Dr. Ahluwalia had said she was taking him off shift to be with Chris, and by god, he was going to hold her to her word. Chris, on the other hand, managed to disentangle himself from Phil’s arm, pushing back without letting go of Phil’s hands; his face was ashen and hysterical. “You need to go.”

“No, I don’t,” Phil countered. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Chris shook his head. “They need you,” he managed. “And I need to be by myself for a little bit. Go, Phil.”

Phil swallowed hard. Leaving Chris’ side was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but if Chris was  _ requesting  _ it, Phil had to honor that. “Okay.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Chris’ forehead. “If you need me, you call me, and I’ll drop whatever I’m doing and come. Got it?”

Chris nodded shakily.

He didn’t know if Chris would find comfort in these words, but  _ he  _ always had. “First law of thermodynamics, remember? Energy cannot be destroyed.” He cupped Chris’ face, turning it up to face him. “Which means  _ Jim  _ cannot be destroyed.”

Chris nodded again. A fresh pair of tears fell in twin tracks down his cheeks, landing in Phil’s palms. “I love you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Phil breathed sadly. “I love you too.”

_ “Dr. Boyce to the emergency department. Dr. Boyce to the emergency department.” _

_ I hear you, dammit.  _ “Anything. I mean it.”

Chris nodded, and Phil reluctantly made his way back downstairs, up to the triage desk from which he had been paged.

“Dr. Ahluwalia had me removed from the floor for a family emergency,” he said to the first nurse who looked up to see him, breaking out his rarely-used Doctor Hardass voice. “Why was I just paged twice?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Boyce,” the nurse said mildly, “but Dr. McCoy is calling you from the Enterprise.”

Phil tripped over his own feet getting to the terminal. “Computer, open video call, authorization Boyce kappa one-six.” The computer gave an obedient chime, and the ghostly, stricken face of Leonard McCoy appeared before him.

“Len,” Phil sighed sadly, “son, I’m so sorry, I - ”

“Phil, I need your help.”

Phil stopped abruptly. “I - what? With what?”

“I need a bed,” Len continued. “I don’t care where; somewhere that’s free and where you’ve got some power. L&D will do, if it’s slow. I need cryogenics reversal protocols and a couple of ballsy nurses who are VIP trained and won’t ask too many questions. Bonus points if you know a hematologist who likes a challenge.”

Those weren’t challenging requests, but Phil was still baffled. “I can get you all that, but why?”

“One other thing,” Len said. “I need you to admit Jim under your name.”

The brakes in Phil’s brain made a screeching noise. “I...what?”

“Listen to me,” Len said quietly, “I ain’t got time for chapter and verse. I might be able to kick-start his metabolism with a transplant of marrow with regenerative properties. I’ve seen it work on less complex organisms. It might work on him, too.”

“What marrow?” Phil exclaimed. “From whom?”

“John Harrison is not John Harrison,” Len said grimly. “He’s Khan.”

“Khan who?”

Len visibly restrained a sigh of annoyance. “Eugenics Wars Khan. Khan from history class Khan. Khan Noonien Singh.  _ That  _ Khan.”

On a day in which everything seemed baffling, this seemed to rise swiftly to the top of the list of question marks. “Len, Khan Singh was born in the nineteen seventies; there’s no way he’d still be alive.”

“Not without genetically engineered bone marrow, he wouldn’t,” Len said, “but he’s got it, in spades, and the longevity that goes with alleged genetic superiority. Khan’s entire  _ existence  _ was predicated on giving us a new standard to live up to. He’s got regenerative platelets, red blood cells with twice the oxygen carrying capacity, and about half a dozen more types of leukocytes than we’ve got.  _ He can save Jim,  _ Phil.” Len looked behind him, at something out of Phil’s view. “But work fast. I can’t keep him in cryo forever.”

Maybe this, the most nonsensical thing of all, had a shred of sense in it. Or, even more, a sense of  _ hope. _

For Len, for Chris, and most of all, for Jim, Phil took a leap of faith into the absurdity. “I’ll comm you in ten. Boyce out.”

~

Room 110 was in the running for the quietest occupied spot in the entire hospital, Phil thought. Len was standing, his arms folded neutrally in front of him, looking at the biobed readout that displayed Jim’s vital signs, his blood chemistries, and his EEG readout. Spock was at his elbow, entering data on a PADD. Jim lay in the bed itself, preternaturally still for one of the most inherently vibrant people Phil had ever met. And on the other side of the bed, Chris was sitting up in a wheelchair, holding Jim’s hand, trying in vain to keep from falling asleep.

“Chrissy?” Phil said softly.

Chris jolted awake. “Huh?”

“Just me.” Phil put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re exhausted, love. Let’s walk you back to bed.”

Chris blinked a few times, trying to make himself look less tired than he was - a look that bore a remarkable similarity to how he looked when he was drunk and trying to fake sobriety. “‘M fine,” he mumbled. “I don’t want to leave him.”

_ Dr. Boyce _ wanted to protest that choice, to remind Chris that he was still healing, that he needed to be in bed and to get rest.  _ Phil,  _ on the other hand, knew a losing battle with this man when he saw one. “Mind if I scan you?”

Chris nodded sleepily. “Go for it.”

Phil scanned him. For a guy who got shot in the chest twelve days ago, and for whom that wasn’t even the most traumatic part of his week, Chris was in remarkably good shape; the vessels and lung tissue Len had repaired were healing beautifully, there was no evidence of infection, and his vital signs were stable, more or less.

_ Count your blessings. They are more numerous than you realize. _

A rough task, with Jim trapped in the nebulous haze that separates death from life; but an even more important one for the same reason.

“Told you I was fine,” Chris murmured, with the ghost of a smile.

Phil pocketed his tricorder. “Your blood pressure’s a little low.”

“Nitpicker.”

“Cowboy.” Phil crouched down next to him and let Chris sling an arm around his shoulder. 

“He has a little bump, right here,” Chris murmured, running his thumb over a spot on Jim’s ring finger. “What’s that?”

Phil smiled fondly. “It’s where his pen or his stylus rests when he’s writing,” he said. “You’ve got the same thing on your left.”

Chris folded in the fingers on his left hand, feeling for the little callus Phil had found on him when he was recovering after Damma. “Huh. Never noticed that before.”

_ Like father, like son  _ sprang to Phil’s mind, but he didn’t verbalize it, because he couldn’t tell if it would be too painful for Chris to hear.

“You could go get some sleep if you wanted,” Chris offered. “Spock’ll be here for a while, and I know Len’s not going anywhere. You’re beat, too.”

Phil shook his head. “I’m okay. I’ll stay for a while.” He stood, his knees cracking slightly as he did. “I do need a bathroom break, though. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Five minutes later, as Phil was washing his hands, the overhead PA went off.  _ “Dr. Boyce, please report to room 110 stat. Dr. Boyce to room 110 stat.” _

_ Fuck, what now?  _ Abandoning his reach for the paper towels, he left the restroom at a jog, not stopping until he was just inside Jim’s room.

Spock and Chris were exactly where Phil had left them, but Len had come over to Jim’s bed and sat next to him, hip to hip, clutching his hand. Phil looked to the biobed readout; Jim’s blood chemistries were unchanged, his vitals stable, but his EEG…

Those were alpha waves. Dead people don’t have alpha waves.

_ Holy shit, Len, you did it. _

Chris grabbed his cane from where it leaned next to Jim’s bed and stood up from the wheelchair, making his way over to Phil with a question in his eyes. “What’s going on?”

Phil’s face broke into a smile - a  _ real  _ smile, the kind he hadn’t worn in weeks. “He’s asleep.”

Chris shook his head. “Right. And?”

“No,” Phil clarified. “Not comatose -  _ asleep.  _ See that little squiggly line there, right at the bottom of the readout?”

Chris nodded, still obviously confused.

“Sweetheart, those are brain waves.”

“Brain waves?” Chris echoed softly, turning back to look at Jim. “You...you mean it worked?”

Phil wrapped his arm around Chris again. “I mean he’s in there, Chris. He’s alive.”

A tear fell down Chris’ cheek, though he gave no indication that he was aware of it, and then  _ he  _ broke into that genuine smile that Phil hadn’t seen in too long.  _ “Jim.” _

Spock remained stoic and impartial to the side, but Phil saw him ever so subtly shuffle his feet away from the bed, trying to give Jim and Len as much space as he could. From behind, Phil saw Len’s arm shift, stroking a hand through Jim’s hair as he leaned close and whispered things not meant for ears other than Jim’s. Phil’s palm tingled with the memory of stroking Chris’ tacky, unwashed hair in that same way after the Narada, when it was Phil who had come within a breath of losing the love of his life.

“Let’s give them a little privacy, hmm?” Phil prompted gently. “They could use it.”

Chris nodded vacantly, his eyes still trained on his boy in the bed.

“Spock,” Phil said lowly. Spock looked up, and Phil subtly jerked his head toward the door of the room. Spock nodded once with understanding and slipped silently from the room.

_ That’s the same guy who threw me in the brig for an emotional display not so long ago,  _ Phil thought wryly.  _ It really is a new world. _

~

“I  _ told  _ you, Phil, I’m  _ fine,”  _ Chris huffed, leaning so heavily on his cane that he was tipping to one side. “You said yourself it probably won’t be long before he wakes up and I don’t want to miss it.”

Phil folded his arms and shook his head. God, Chris really was a stubborn ass sometimes. “Yeah, I’m sure Jim wants to come back to the world of the living to see you teetering on the edge of hallucination because you haven’t slept in god knows how long.”

Chris looked at Phil flatly. “I’m strong enough to stay awake,  _ Philip.” _

“My medical opinion is that that is a gross misuse of your willpower,  _ Christopher.” _

Chris glared bloodlessly, but the narrowing of his eyes caused them to close all on their own, and Phil had to grab onto his arm to keep him upright.

“Yes, that’s exactly what we need right now,” he muttered. “You with a  _ head trauma  _ on top of everything else. You have a communicator, Chris. We live five minutes away. Keep it charged and Len can comm you if he wakes up. Now, I’m taking you home. Doctor’s orders.”

Stowing his protests, Chris slipped an arm around Phil’s waist for some extra stability and walked out with him. “You’re a pain in the ass, babe.”

“Pot, kettle.”

“That’s fair.”

By the time Phil pulled into their driveway the promised five minutes later, Chris was already snoring in the passenger seat.

“C’mon, Sleeping Beauty,” Phil murmured. “Bedtime.”

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep himself, but Chris looked  _ so  _ cozy all curled up like that, and their bed looked  _ so  _ inviting, and he really  _ hadn’t  _ slept much lately...well, maybe a quick nap wouldn’t hurt.

Four hours later, he jolted awake with a mouthful of Chris’ hair and a kink in his shoulder to the sound of Len’s voice.  _ “McCoy to Pike.” _

Chris’ hand smacked around a little on the nightstand before landing on his communicator. “I’m here, Len. What is it?”

_ “He’s awake.” _

Before Phil had processed the words, Chris was on his feet, throwing on a sweatshirt, racing down the hall while trying to zip up his jeans, leaning on the walls, his cane abandoned next to the bed. It would’ve been a comical sight if not for the risk of Chris hurting himself  _ yet again. _

_ “Christopher!”  _ he exclaimed, catching up to him in the hall outside the guest bathroom and handing the cane over to him. “You forgot something.”

Chris huffed impatiently, taking the cane and shoving his feet haphazardly into his sneakers, laces pre-tied. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he muttered, twitching like a live wire, not stopping until they’d gotten back to the hospital and he’d flung open the door to Jim’s room.

To the left of the hospital bed, Spock sat in the chair that Chris had unofficially claimed as  _ his  _ since Jim was admitted, his back ramrod straight but an uncharacteristically soft look to his eyes. To the right, Len was sprawled in another chair, his head in his hands, his chest rising and falling with the gasps that accompanied an adrenaline crash. And between them, Jim sat semi-upright in his hospital bed. He was thinner, having gone two weeks without his usual allotment of calories, and his eyes still looked a little glazed and disoriented - but they were  _ open,  _ that vibrant, watery blue taking in the presence of his found family surrounding him now after what had to have been the strangest trip known to humanity. Jim’s eyes landed on Chris and Phil in the door of the room, and he smiled.

“Thought I told you not to do anything stupid,” Chris said, with a pseudo-gruffness that stood in for the imminent loss of his emotional control.

Jim’s smile became a grin - a very  _ Jim  _ grin, the kind of  _ I solemnly swear I am up to no good  _ grin that both warmed Chris’ heart and served as a thorn in his side. “Yeah, well,” he said roughly, “what would Chris Pike do?”

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem tears, and heard Chris take a shuddering breath. “Jim Kirk,” Chris murmured, almost too quietly for Phil to hear him. “You  _ absolute  _ pain in my ass.”


	30. Chapter 30

“What do you want to do now?”

Chris turned his head, a little crease between his eyes. “What do you mean?”

It was late; Len and Jim had already gone to bed, and Phil and Chris had the lights out, but were still up, nestled together in the bed Chris had slept in as a boy. A cool desert breeze blew in through the open window as Phil shifted so he was facing Chris, letting their legs tangle up together under the blanket. “I mean, what do you want to do now? I know you hate to be reminded of it, but you  _ are  _ an admiral, honey, and in light of recent events, I’m sure you could have your pick of assignments.” Phil smiled gently. “I know you’ve been thinking about it. I’m just curious to know what you’ve concluded.”

Chris was silent for a moment, blowing out a long breath. He traced nonsense patterns with his finger along Phil’s palm where it lay open on the space between their pillows. “You know, I had two motivations for joining Starfleet in the first place,” he said quietly. “On the one hand, I wanted to explore the stars like my grandpa did. I  _ craved _ it. There was nothing,  _ nothing,  _ cooler to me than being able to lead a group of intrepid space cowboys on a tour of the galaxy, to discover new things, to reach out to new societies. To be able to help people who needed it.” He pursed his lips. “But on the other hand, I wanted to get out of Mojave. If I didn’t, I knew I’d be stuck doing construction at the spaceport like my dad did, or bussing tables at the diner until I was old and grey. I’d already lost Grandpa, and Dad and Grandma and I weren’t so much family as ships passing in the night. I wanted community. I wanted family.”

Not for the first time, Phil  _ ached  _ for a way to go back in time and offer some measure of comfort to teenage Chris, and not for the first time, Phil felt waves of immense gratitude for the family  _ he  _ had.

“But I can’t explore the stars anymore,” Chris continued. “I’ve had to accept that. I don’t  _ want  _ to, but I have to. I  _ love  _ this job, Phil. I love this life. And I’m so fucking  _ grateful  _ to Len for giving me so much of my life back. But I still can’t run from a Klingon with a phaser rifle or get down twelve decks to an evac shuttle if the warp core overloads.” Chris’ eyes shifted downward, and his voice cracked a little. “I can’t do this anymore, and it breaks my heart.”

Phil stroked his hand through Chris’ hair. “I know, love. I know.”

Chris sniffled harshly. “But I  _ did  _ find my family,” he said with a watery smile. “Alex Marcus was a sonofabitch, and if I had one more moment with him alive I’d knock his teeth out, but I can’t say I’m not grateful to him. He recruited me.” Chris cupped Phil’s cheek, putting the pad of his thumb over Phil’s lips. “He brought me to you.”

Phil smiled, curling his arm around Chris’ waist.

“Remember what I said to you when I woke up in the hospital after Daystrom?” Chris continued softly.  _ “I love you more than the stars?  _ I meant that, Phil. I used to dream about going out there until Medical chained my ass to the ground when I was a hundred years old, but I don’t anymore. Now I dream about about hearing you mutter to yourself in French around the house and kicking your ass at chess and waking up to smell you burning the bacon because vegetarians don’t know how to cook bacon. I dream about growing old with you.”

Tears dripped off the apple of Phil’s cheek, hitting his pillow with a tiny  _ thwack. _

“You taught me what love is, Phil. What it  _ really  _ is. And I used to try to segregate it, push it to the side and pretend I didn’t know it to be true; but no matter what I did in all those years, I couldn’t unlearn that lesson. Everyone before you was always judged against your benchmark - not on how  _ like you  _ they were, but on how well they did at never, ever making me doubt, on how well they did at communicating to me that I was appreciated and loved. From the day I met you, no matter what kind of relationship we’ve had, I have never, ever doubted that. Not even for a second. And as sad as I am that I can’t go up anymore, I’m  _ so _ damn happy that I get to keep learning those lessons from you down here. I want to keep making up for lost time with you. I want to build more good memories with you. I want to explore Holland with you. That’s worth more to me than the stars, Phil. Any day.”

Phil shook his head. “When did you get so damn romantic?” he asked thickly. “Aren’t you the same guy who thought a romantic gesture would be setting your dorm on fire trying to make pancakes for your girlfriend?”

Chris rolled his eyes affectionately. “Don’t knock my penchant for setting things on fire. That’s how we got to live together, remember?”

“Yeah. Your clothes reeked of smoke and you had batter in your hair.”

_ “Blasphemy.  _ There was no  _ batter  _ in my hair.”

“I assure you, there was.” Phil brought his hands up to Chris’ shoulder blades, massaging gently. “You didn’t answer the question. What do you want to do now?”

Chris looked down with a sheepish smile. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“I think I want to apply to the Teaching Corps.”

Phil felt his entire face brighten. “Really? You want to teach?”

“Yeah, I do,” Chris said. “I didn’t think I’d like being Commander of Cadets as much as I did. There was something really gratifying about it, knowing that I could help guide and shape the people who were going to make up Starfleet one day, who will define what it means when our generation is ashes. I feel like maybe I could make more of an impact in the classroom.”

“You know, after the Narada, Erin made reference to wishing you’d become a nerdy social studies professor,” Phil said, gently teasing. “She’s gonna laugh her ass off.”

“Number One made similar cracks to me,” Chris added. “This is what happens when you surround yourself with women who are smarter than you.”

“You’re damn right.”  _ Women are the strongest, fiercest, most powerful creatures in existence. _

Chris went quiet and bashful, tracing on Phil’s palm again. “And...well. It’d be nice to also be around...you know, dependably around, if Jim needed me.” Phil could  _ feel  _ the heat radiating off Chris’ blushing face; it was kind of adorable, but pointing that out was going to get him kicked. “I know he’s a grown-up and he’s a captain, but he’s still a  _ baby  _ captain, and if he has a question or gets in a sticky situation...I don’t know.” He shrugged with false nonchalance. “He’s already lost  _ one _ father.”

Phil’s heart clenched. “And he doesn’t deserve to lose a second,” he finished.

Chris nodded.

“What about you?” Chris asked. “What do  _ you  _ want to do now, Phil?”

“Same things I’ve always wanted. To help people. To catch babies. To have a little house on the water. To grow orchids and vegetables. To have a dog or two.”  Phil smiled. “And to grow old with the love of my life.”

Chris pressed his forehead to Phil’s. “Sounds perfect.”

~

From behind her desk, Dr. April grinned hugely. “Hi, Phil. Come on in.”

Phil smiled back. “Great to see you,” he greeted her kindly. “What can I do for you?”

Dr. April’s smile did not waver. “Phil, I’m retiring at the end of August.”

Phil’s face fell. He adored Dr. April. “I’m so sad to hear that.”

She laughed. “Don’t be, honey. I’m about to hit three digits. I’m  _ well  _ past my sell-by date.” She fixed him with that same bright, penetrating look she’d given him in Dr. Morgan’s office almost forty years ago. “You’re an exemplary physician, Phil. I hope you know that. I knew you would be the first time I met you; your intellect is broad and deep, and your clinical instincts are second to none - but I didn’t know at that time just how committed you were to holistic care, in the truest sense of the word. You don’t just treat; you  _ heal.  _ You don’t just assess the body; you integrate the mind and the heart. You don’t just care; you  _ love.” _

_ Love. No matter what. _

“I can’t begin to tell you what that means to me,” Phil said softly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dr. April said. “Those are among the many reasons why you’ve been nominated to replace me as Surgeon General.”

A circuit blew in Phil’s brain. “I - excuse me?”

Her smile broadened again. “You heard me. The Board of Personnel is considering my replacement, and while they’ve got a few other wonderful candidates, you would be my top choice. Not just because you’re such a skilled, comprehensive, compassionate, and holistic physician, but because you are what Starfleet Medical needs right now. We need more of  _ you  _ in the organization. And in society at large, frankly.”

Phil stammered. “I - I, um...I’m honored?”

Dr. April chuckled. “You’re welcome?” she said, matching Phil’s questioning timbre. “Anyway, before we get to the actual debating and voting and all that other BS, I’m bringing each candidate in to tell them and give them a chance to ask questions and accept or decline the nomination.”

Phil licked his dry lips - a fruitless endeavor; all his saliva had apparently head for the hills. “Can I ask who else is under consideration?”

“Ngozi Ife, zh’Taal, Prisha Ahluwalia, Kaxan Stadi from anesthesia…”

Phil wasn’t listening to the list. He was stalling, considering the offer. This the biggest career decision he’d had to make since joining up in the first place, by a wide margin. It would represent a huge shift in so many aspects of his life - he’d have the opportunity to make real,  _ enduring  _ changes to Medical’s policies and procedures, ones that would long outlast his own career, the kinds of changes that Chris would get to make in teaching new cadets at the Academy. He’d get a promotion, a corner office, and a hell of a salary bump. On the surface, this sounded like a sweet deal.

A sweet deal that Phil instinctively knew he didn’t want. Not at all.

“Dr. April,” he said lowly, “I have looked up to you my entire career. I’ve grown from your tutelage and I’ve gained so much from your wisdom, and to have you think highly enough of me to recommend my advancement to Surgeon General is an incredible honor.”

She nodded in that way that said she knew what was coming.

“But I didn’t become a doctor so I could sit in an office and push papers and give press conferences. I became a doctor because I love to  _ doctor.  _ I love to sort out a clinical puzzle. I love to see the light bulb come on over my patient’s head when I explain something and you can see that they  _ get it.  _ I love the rush of being there when a life comes into the world and the honor of bearing witness when one leaves it.” He smiled. “And I love being able to go home to my partner at the end of the evening, even if my back’s killing me and I reek of amniotic fluid, and not being trapped under a mountain of paperwork.”

Dr. April laughed. “Touche.”

“I’m a doctor because I love being a doctor,” Phil finished. “And I don’t want to do anything that takes me away from being a doctor.”

She nodded. “I had to ask, you know.”

“Thank you,” he said to her. “Truly. For everything. Thank you.”

“I have another proposition for you.”

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“What about a position that lets you keep doing all the clinical work you want, gives you plenty of time home with Chris, but still gives you some leadership and policy-making decisions?” She shrugged in mock contemplation. “Say...Chief of Obstetrics and Gynecology?”

Phil’s jaw opened without him giving it permission. “Really?”

“Definitely. You’d have the opportunity to implement policy changes within your unit, and, if you wanted, you could present those changes to the Board, who could consider them for wider implementation. You’d still be on the floor the vast majority of the time, and what paper-pushing you’d have to do would be pretty minimal.” Her lips quirked. “Plus, with the raise, you could take Chris to Santorini like you’ve been talking about.”

Phil let out a bright little laugh, nodding slowly. “I...that sounds pretty amazing.” He grinned. “I accept.”

“Good,” Dr. April said with a little grin. “This old lady would’ve cold-cocked you otherwise.” She nodded to the door. “You’ve got a shuttle to catch. Come see me when you get back and we’ll do the technical parts.”

Phil nodded again, shaking her hand with a broad grin. “Thank you.”

“No,” she said, “thank  _ you.” _

~

When Phil came walking down the path that led to the front door of Caroline Cove, his mom was outside waiting for him, grey and lined and  _ beautiful,  _ so incredibly beautiful, with a beaming smile on her face. She opened her arms for him and, like a child, he nestled next to her heartbeat, seeking her warmth.

“Happy birthday, my sweet prince,” she murmured into his ear.

Inside, Sarah was fanning herself with a magazine, declaring it  _ too damn hot for New England; I don’t care if it’s July.  _ Charlie was bouncing his new grandson on his lap while Audrey beamed with exhausted joy next to him. Lily had Len’s daughter Joanna on her lap and was braiding her long dark hair so she could join the kids playing outside. In the kitchen, Dad was trying to teach Len his cheesecake recipe, and Jim was sitting at the table, eating all the baby carrots out of a vegetable tray and giggling at the juxtaposition of a heavy Georgia accent and a heavy Québécois one attempting to communicate. On the wall of the living room, amidst pictures of the grandchildren and weddings and such, a  simple black frame held two pictures: Chris and Phil on the dock on the left, and Victoria Nelson’s hospital picture of Chris and Phil on the right. 

Making his way through the house, giving hugs and kisses to his gathered family, he finally arrived at the back door, slipped off his shoes, and went down to the dock where he and Chris had sat together in a sunbeam thirty years ago.

“Hey, you,” Chris said with a smile, looking up from where his feet dangled in the water. “You made it.”

Phil sat down next to him, slipped his arm around Chris’ shoulder, and kissed him full on the lips.

“Well, I’m glad to see you, too,” Chris laughed once the kiss had broken. He settled his head on Phil’s shoulder, and curled into him as a patch of sunlight streamed down through broken clouds. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Phil murmured, kissing the top of Chris’ head. “I’m wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first decided to write “the way our horizons meet” almost two years ago, it was built on the foundation of my own craving to have more time with Christopher Pike. I went into it desperate to give him a story, to give him the depth and dimension that extraordinary character deserved. I wanted a better ending for him than what he got in canon. I wanted a better everything for him than what he got in canon.
> 
> And in so doing, I wrote a story in which it was impossible to tell the story of Christopher Pike without telling the story of Philip Boyce right alongside it.
> 
> I went into that fic already loving Chris with all my heart. But in writing it, I fell in love with Phil. I realized that Chris was a reflection of who I am, and Phil is a reflection of who I’d like to be. And I needed so, so badly to tell his story, too. He deserved the same depth and dimension that I sought to give Chris in the first story, and I wanted to be the one to give it to him.
> 
> “Welcome to Holland” was written by Emily Perl Kingsley in 1987 and can be read in its original form here: http://www.our-kids.org/Archives/Holland.html 
> 
> I want to give very special thanks to three brilliant, talented people whose work I adore: to imachar, who turned me onto this pairing in the first place when it never would’ve crossed my mind otherwise; to Kenzie, who stayed up wit me into the wee small hours of the morning as I tore my hair out crafting every incremental detail of this story; and to Johanna, who has been my champion every step of the way, in writing and in life. Without these three extraordinary people, this story wouldn’t have been a fraction as good, if I even wrote it at all.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has commented on this story. It’s been infinitely gratifying to see the response from people who are reading it, and I am humbled by your enthusiasm and support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> Never in a million years could I have imagined what these two characters would grow to mean to me, how I have learned from them, and what they have taught me. I am beyond grateful for the opportunity to tell their stories, and I look forward to doing so even more as time goes on.
> 
> Thank you so, so much, everyone. This has been a joy.
> 
> Love. No matter what.


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